Greetings!

In Wisconsin.

This evening.

In Milwaukee.

Yes, the Brewers against the Tampa Bay Rays.

Brings to mind that I’ve written several baseball stories. I’ll share one since the World Series is here. It’s excerpted from my novel New Hope that will be out next year.

The backstory

I set New Hope in 1936 in the Smoky Mountains of eastern Tennessee. Preacher John Hepsebah Lawless, a circuit rider, has found that tuberculosis is raging in some of the back hollows of his district. He decides what’s needed is a sanatorium where those who suffer from TB can get care.

He and the members of one of his home congregations set out to build one. With the help of a crew from a nearby WPA project, they get the job done. To celebrate, they have a ball game, Lawless and his congregants versus the WPA men.

Well, you can’t tell the players without a program, so here's who are on the two teams . . .

The home team: Preacher, Doc Schroeder, Nurse Sadie Devine, Wendell Keegan, Ernest Hunsbusher (Cletus Hunsbusher’s son), Jesse McCarter, Delbert Clabo, James Walter McCarter, and Norbert Gray.

The visiting team (the WPA men): Brothers Ben and Homer Wright; brothers Rock, James, and John Fallon; Bill Hansen, Jurgen Krueger, Willy Click, and Dewey Emmanuel.

The umpire (every game needs one) is Bishop Walter Atherton.

Play Ball!

DOC SCHROEDER, a bat in one hand and a ball in the other, walked up a couple steps before he banged the bat on the sanatorium’s porch floor for attention. “Baseball! We got us a challenge game. The WPA men against everybody else. Down to the field by the school!”

Cheers went up. Most turned and worked their way down toward the field, bases in place, bases that Schroeder and A.G. King had staked down. A few people stayed back to watch from the shade of the porch.

“Bishop, we need an umpire,” Preacher said. “I don’t expect there would be anyone more fair than you.”

“I’ve not called a game in years, John, but I’d be glad to.”

Ben Wright organized the WPA team and Boggs Kuhfuss, the Fish Camp team.

Boggs followed Schroeder’s suggestion and put him--the doctor--on the mound, Preacher behind the plate, and Nurse Devine at first. At second, he placed his friend and neighbor, Wendell Keegan; shortstop, Ernest Hunsbusher, Cletus Hunsbusher’s boy; and third base, Jesse McCarter. In the outfield, he put three of the camp’s young men, Delbert Clabo, James Walter McCarter, and Norbert Gray.

“Everyone else who wants to play, I’ll get you in there,” Boggs said to those gathered around him. “We’re the home team, so we take the field.”

Ben worked out his lineup. Catcher, Harold Wright; first base, Bill Hansen; second, Jurgen Krueger; shortstop, Willy Click; third, Dewey Emmanuel. He put the three Fallon brothers in the outfield, then designated himself as the starting pitcher.

Schroeder took off his suit coat and undid his tie. He tossed them across the schoolyard fence, then picked his glove and a ball, and strolled over to the shade where the Hunsbushers sat with their son. “Cal, you going to be able to see all right?”

“Ma’s propped me up some.”

“Good. Now if you get tired, we’ll carry you up to the hospital and put you in a proper bed.”

“I won’t. I want to see Ernest play.”

Schroeder brushed the boy’s hair back from his forehead. “And here I thought you wanted to see me pitch.”

“That, too.”

Schroeder strolled out to the board that marked the pitcher’s mound, whistling as he went.

Preacher sorted through the equipment bag until he came up with a catcher’s glove, then went over to his spot behind the plate that, like the other bases, was a White Lily flour sack filled with sand. He crouched down, slapping his glove. “Doc? Burn one in!”

Schroeder obliged. Only the pitch went high and to the side. Preacher leaped to catch it.

He stalked out to Schroeder. “I thought you said you could pitch.”

“Bullets, Preacher, bullets. But this is psychology. I’m going to throw this ball everywhere but over the plate.”

“And when there’s a batter?”

“The first man gets a wild pitch, a strike he’s not expecting, a second wild pitch and two more strikes he can’t touch.”

Preacher shrugged, then walked back to the plate.

Schroeder threw three more warmup pitches, the first wide of the plate, the second so high Preacher wished he had a ladder, and the third hit the front of the bag.

“I’m ready!” Schroeder rubbed his arm while he waited for Preacher to toss the ball back to him.

Boggs called Preacher over. “I don’t know. The doc’s awful wild. I think maybe I’d better put in Delbert Clabo and send Doc to the outfield. Delbert’s pretty good as a pitcher. His daddy’s taught him well.”

Preacher, his knuckles pressed against his hips, leaned into his team manager. “Let’s give Doc a chance.”

“Well, if you think so.”

“You can always pull him later.”

Preacher went back to his spot behind the plate. He flipped the ball to Schroeder, then settled in his crouch to wait for the first pitch. Ahead of him stood Bill Hansen, whacking a bat at the air.

The first pitch whistled past Hansen, not over the plate but behind the batter. Preacher sprang out to the side to catch it.

“Watch out, Bill, don’t let him hit you,” Preacher said after he tossed the ball back to Schroeder.

The second ball came right down the center, with Hansen gaping at it, his bat on his shoulder.

“Strike!” the bishop hollered.

“Lucky pitch,” Hansen muttered.

“Probably.” Preacher flipped the ball back to the mound.

The next pitch hit ten feet in front of the plate and bounced across.

Then came pitches four and five. “Strike!” the bishop yelled after each.

Preacher walked out to the mound with the ball. “You’re a man of your word, Doc. But they’re gonna be looking for you, now.”

“I know, so I’m going to let them spray a couple hits around. Let ’em get cocky.”

“All right.”

Schroeder turned to his shortstop. “Ernie, you’re going to get this one.”

On the first pitch to Jurgen Krueger, Krueger hit a bouncer to shortstop. Ernest Hunsbusher came up with it and fired at first. The ball slapped into Sadie Devine’s glove for the second out.

Schroeder waved James Walter McCarter in from deep center field and mouthed the word “yours.”

He then tossed an easy pitch to Willy Click.

Willy waited, then swung for all he was worth. He connected and the ball carried away, arcing over second base. McCarter slapped at his glove while he danced his way under the ball and caught it for the third out.

“Doc, you’re going to make this game easy on me after all,” Preacher said when Schroeder strolled in from the mound.

“Wait ’til next inning. I’m gonna let a man get on base, then we’ll get him out in a double play.”

“You’ve got that much control?”

Schroeder smiled.

Ben Wright, on the mound, threw four warmup pitches, then called for a batter.

Sadie Devine stepped up.

“You any good with that bat, Miss Devine?” Harold Wright asked from his position behind the plate.

“You just watch me.”

Ben sent the first pitch straight down the center.

Sadie gritted her teeth. She swung up from below and hit a towering drive toward right field.

Rock Fallon saw it and pedaled back. When he came into position, he stepped in a rabbit hole and tumbled backwards, head over teakettle. The ball hit beyond him and rolled away.

Sadie picked up her skirts and hurried toward first base. Wendell Keegan waved her on to second. “Keep comin’! Keep comin’!” Shan Clabo yelled, motioning to third, then he windmilled his arm and pointed for home.

The ball flew in from John Fallon to Krueger at second. Krueger turned and whipped the ball to the catcher—too late. The bishop signaled safe.

Squeals from the girls and applause from the adults greeted Nurse Devine as she walked away from home plate. She gave a modest wave to her admirers.

The next batters didn’t fare as well. Wendell Keegan fouled back to Harold for an out, Ernest Hunsbusher hit a shot to the pitcher, and Jesse McCarter went down on three strikes.

“We’ve got you by a run,” Schroeder said to Ben Wright when he passed him, Schroeder heading for the mound.

“I know, but that was just the first inning.”

“So?”

“Dewey’s up, and he doesn’t let nothing get by him.”

“He’ll get on base, but that’s all.”

Schroeder threw one pitch to Dewey Emmanuel. To Preacher, the ball appeared to wobble, but not to Emmanuel. He swung hard and hit a blooper that dropped in the hole behind short. Ernest Hunsbusher ran for it. He scooped up the ball and, twisting, side-armed it to Wendell Keegan at second to hold Emmanuel at first.

“Thought you were gonna get a two-bagger, didn’t you?” Sadie said, pounding her fist into her glove.

Emmanuel shrugged. “I take what I can get.”

John Fallon stepped up to the plate. He kicked dirt back as he dug his feet into position.

Schroeder eyed Emmanuel, then studied Fallon. He leaned back and rocked forward, letting loose a pitch that went wide. Preacher knocked the ball down to keep it from getting away.

Schroeder, with the ball back, glanced over his shoulder. He took note that Emmanuel had helped himself to a healthy lead off first. Schroeder leaned back and rocked forward, whipping his arm over to release a shot straight down the center. He dropped to the ground when Fallon hit a drive right back at him. The ball slapped into Wendell Keegan’s glove. Keegan turned and rifled it to Sadie Devine who tagged Emmanuel sliding back to the base, for the double play.

Nan Keegan whooped, then clapped her hands over her mouth in embarrassment for her show of enthusiasm.

Rock Fallon, next at the plate, reached down for a fistful of dirt. He rubbed it into his hands, then took several vicious swings with the bat.

Schroeder studied him, then put the first pitch down the center. Rock saw the ball and squared around. He punched it off to the third-base side.

Schroeder ran for the ball. He came up with it and whipped it to first, beating out the runner by a step for the third out of the inning.

“We still gotcha by a run,” Schroeder said to Ben Wright, smiling when the two men passed one another, Ben on the way to the mound.

“Doc, if that’s a smirk, take it off your face,” Ben said. “I’m up next inning.”

In that inning, Ben hit a towering shot that drove his brother Harold home from second base, the first run for the WPA team, a run met by applause and whistles from the teamsters, the lumberjacks, and the quarrymen. But the ball hit the trunk of a chestnut tree deep in the outfield. It ricocheted back to Delbert Clabo who rifled it to shortstop Ernie Hunsbusher at the cut-off. Ernie whirled and whipped the ball to Wendell Keegan who put the tag on Ben.

“I may be out, but we gotcha tied,” Ben said to Schroeder when he walked past the opposing pitcher on his way to the WPA team bunched up beyond the left foul line.

“Enjoy it. That may be the last run you get.”

________

THE GAME stayed tied until the sixth inning. Schroeder whistled for Boggs to come over. “Cap’n, Preacher and I are gonna sit out a while. Do you have somebody else to pitch?”

“Yeah.” Boggs waved at Delbert Clabo, already in the outfield, then strolled over to Clabo’s father. “Shan, you’re catcher. Delbert’s going to pitch.”

Delbert trotted up. “What’s going on?”

Boggs put his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “You’re going in there and pitch these WPA men out.”

“You’re sure?”

“You can do it, Delbert. Now get in there.”

“New pitcher?” the bishop asked Boggs as Delbert trotted out to the board that marked the pitcher’s mound.

“Yup.”

Atherton stepped out to the side of the plate. He brought his hands up beside his mouth, forming a megaphone. “Son? You want some warmup pitches?”

Delbert waved, and Atherton responded by holding up four fingers.

Four proved to be not enough because the new pitcher gave up a single to Rock Fallon, then walked Rock’s brother, James.

Ben Wright, the WPA manager, put in Mose Grummitt, to give him a chance at bat, and Mose looped a Clabo pitch into the opening between first and second base, advancing the Fallons.

Shan called a timeout when he saw Big Bill Hansen strolling toward the plate with a bat on his shoulder. He hustled out to his son. “What do you think, Delbert? You think you can get him out?”

The pitcher leaned around his father. He sized up Hansen, a giant of a man, then leaned back. “Well, I can throw inside, so if he hits it, it’ll stay in the infield. Maybe we can get a double play.”

Shan put a hand on Delbert’s shoulder. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s do it, son. But before you throw, I want you to shake off two signs and don’t listen to anything I say.”

“All right, Pa.”

Shan shambled back to his spot behind the plate. He crouched down. “Bill,” he said to the batter, “I just don’t understand my boy. He’s got this outside curve ball he’s been practicing, and he wants to throw it to you. But it’s just awful. I told him you’d hit it.”

Clabo flashed a sign.

Delbert looked at it and shook his head.

Clabo flashed another sign.

Again Delbert shook his head.

“Dammit, Del, you throw that outside curve, he’s gonna hit it so far out in the weeds James Walter will never find it!”

Delbert Clabo tugged at the bill of his cap, then checked the runners at each base. He didn’t bother with a windup. He just let the ball go, and Bill Hansen, without so much as wiggling his bat, watched the pitch sail across an inside corner of the plate.

“Strike one!”

“I’m sorry, Bill,” Shan said. “I work with this kid, and he’s just got no control. . . . Del, you throw that outside curve again, this time it’s going over his head!”

He tossed the ball back to his pitcher son. “Watch him, Bill, this is gonna be high.”

Again, Delbert checked the runners at the bases, then let fly . . . a second inside curve.

“Strike two!”

Hansen turned to Shan, nonplused. “I though you said that one was gonna be high.”

“I told you, the kid’s got no control.” Shan threw the ball back to his son, then pointed down.

The next pitch bounced in front of the plate. When the ball came up, Hansen swung and lifted it for a high fly that, to the runners, appeared destined for the opening between the left and center fielders. The runners dropped their heads and took off, Rock for home, James for third, and Mose for second. In the outfield, Norbert Gray ran hard toward the ball. At the last second, he stuck his glove out.

“He caught it!”

Harold Wright waved for Rock to come back to third. He tried to stop Mose when Mose rounded second, to get him to go back to first, but Mose had his eyes on the ground and kept pounding toward third base. Rock, who did hear Harold, raced back while James, confused by all this, simply stood on third base where his brother joined him and then Grummitt.

When Rock saw Gray whip the ball to the second baseman, he took off for first, running across the pitcher’s mound to get there. Wendell Keegan caught the ball. He stepped on second base for the second out and threw hard at Nurse Devine’s outstretched glove. She caught the ball and brought it down on Fallon sliding under.

“What the heck were you doing, running from third to first?” Harold asked Rock when Fallon came back for his glove before going to the outfield.

“Shoot, I knew there wasn’t supposed to be three of us on that base. I thought maybe if I could get over to first, I could get away with it.”

“But you didn’t belong there.”

“I figured in all the confusion, nobody’d notice.”

His pitching arm sore, Ben Wright took himself out of the game. “Dewey,” he said to his third baseman, “you pitch.” Then he waved Otto Schmidt over. “You play third.”

“But I don’t understand your game,” the German said.

“All you’ve got to do is catch the ball if it comes your way.”

Schmidt pointed to left field. “Maybe you put me out zere for Mister Fallon. Nobody hit za ball out zere all day.”

“All right.” Ben waved for John Fallon to come in and play third.

Dewey Emmanuel threw the customary four warmup pitches, then stepped away while Nurse Devine walked up to the plate. She struck out on three pitches.

Milas Barnes hit a sharp one to Willy Click that came near to ripping the boy’s glove off, but Willy kept hold of the ball for the second out.

Boggs put a bat in A.G. King’s hands. He sent him to the plate, and King stroked a double.

Dewey Emmanuel stopped the game. He waved for first baseman Hansen, second baseman Krueger, and shortstop Willy Click to join him for a conversation at the pitcher’s mound. After much head bobbing, the men trotted back to their positions.

“What was that all about?” King asked Krueger.

“Strategy. Dewey’s going to try to get Jesse McCarter to hit za ball to Willy at shortstop, and we going to put you out.” Krueger winked.

That startled King.

Emmanuel checked King at second base. He saw the lumber baron’s five-step lead and whirled and fired at Krueger, but King beat the ball to the bag. Krueger threw to Hansen. The ball slapped into the first baseman’s glove. Hansen threw to Emmanuel, and the ball slapped into the pitcher’s glove.

Emmanuel again checked the runner at second. This time King stood only three steps off the bag. Emmanuel tugged at the bill of his cap as he glanced at Krueger.

Krueger nodded. He strolled over to King and tapped the lumber baron to get his attention. Krueger held up the baseball.

The bishop shot his hand up. “He’s out! Third out!”

Krueger grinned. “Za old hidden ball trick. You make it so easy.”

King laughed. “You wouldn’t have fooled me if this was a business deal.”

“Zat’s why I’m glad it’s only a game.”

_______

INNING SEVEN, the WPA team moved ahead by a run. The Fish Camp team answered with two in the eighth.

Schroeder and Preacher meandered over to Boggs.

“Yeah?” Boggs asked.

“We want back in,” Schroeder said.

“Delbert’s been doing all right.”

“Yes, but we still want back in.”

Boggs shrugged, then waved the Clabos over. “S’pose you rest a bit. I’m putting the doctor and Preacher back in.”

Shan threw his cap at the ground. “Aww, come on now, Boggs, Delbert’s doin’ fine. We got us a one-run lead. Leave him in.”

Boggs shook his head.

“It’s all right, Pa,” Delbert said. He pulled off his cap and raked his sleeve up his forehead and over his hair while he watched Schroeder throw his warmup pitches. “Mister Kuhfuss, thanks for taking me out. Pa would never tell ya, but I was gettin’ tired.”

“You did well, son.”

“Coulda been better.”

Schroeder, ready, waved for Dewey Emmanuel, the waiting batter, to step up to the plate.

Emmanuel did. He rubbed dirt into his hands and on the handle of the bat, then crouched down never to lift his bat from his shoulder because the next four pitches went everywhere but over the plate.

“Base on balls,” Atherton called out, pointing the way for Dewey to trot down to first.

Willy Click stepped up. Schroeder studied him, then let loose a pitch the boy liked. Willy punched it beyond the infield for a single, advancing Dewey from first base to third.

Preacher stepped out from behind the plate. He walked toward the mound, moving like his catcher’s knees were hurting him, only to be waved back by Schroeder. “I think he’s lost it,” Preacher said to Harold Wright as Wright stepped into the batter’s box.

Harold took a practice swing. “Maybe he’ll give me a Willy pitch.”

“It could happen.”

Schroeder instead bore down. He struck Harold out, then Jurgen Krueger, each on three pitches.

While a new batter came to the plate, Schroeder stood out at his board, first massaging his pitching arm, then mopping the sweat from his forehead. “Dewey,” he called over to the runner at third, “I’m tired. I’m gonna get me a drink. If you want to take home, go ahead.”

“You’re willing to give up a run?” Emmanuel asked. “That’d tie the game.”



“I don’t care.” Schroeder walked away from pitching board toward the school’s well pump some fifty yards away. He turned back. “Besides, Nurse Sadie comes up in our half of the inning. She’ll hit a home run off you, and we’ll beat you anyway.”

Schroeder resumed his slow walk toward the pump.

Preacher rose from his crouch. He trotted after his pitcher. “Doc, you can’t do this. You can’t give the game away.”

“Preacher, I’m tired. My arm hurts. I’m gonna get a drink of water.”

Lawless turned to Emmanuel and came back to the plate. “Dewey, I don’t understand this. You might as well take the base.”

Emmanuel stared at Ben Wright, coaching third. “The man’s got to be nuts.”

“Some think so,” Ben said and waved a hand toward home plate.

Dewey shrugged. He walked, then shifted into a trot. Halfway to home plate, Preacher called, “Now!”

Emmanuel broke into a run.

Schroeder, a hundred fifty feet away, whirled and fired a bullet at his catcher.

Dewey kicked his feet out in a slide only to see Preacher’s glove come down on him.

When the dust cleared, Preacher poked his glove into Emmanuel’s ribs. “Sorry, but that’s the game.”

Emmanuel spit the dust from his lips. “He suckered me, didn’t he?”

“Dewey, if it makes you feel any better, Doc tells me he’s only done that once before, and that was in college.”

“I can’t believe I let him get me like that.”

“You got greedy. But it wasn’t you. We had this set up. We were gonna get whoever was at third. It just happened to be you.”

Emmanuel got to his feet. He slapped the dust from his pants. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Believe it, Dewey. We gotcha good.”

________

Where I’ll be

Tomorrow—Saturday—I’ll be at the United Church of Christ in Williams Bay for the Williams Bay Cultural Arts Alliance’s Holiday Craft Fair.In Wisconsin.

If you’re in southern Wisconsin or northern Illinois, come on by.

Until next time, keep reading. 

Jerry & the Sheriff