the line, he was trying to earn another berth in the bigs.
“Tell the boys your nickname,” Hoey said. His violinist act hadn’t made anybody laugh, so he was trying something else.
“ ‘Double,’ ” Dunnagin said. “My teammates on the Browns called me Double. In my first-ever at bat, against the Yankees, I slapped a two-bagger off Bullet Joe Bush. The ball scooted into the alley between Witt and Ruth. Well, I thought, I’m on my way. Look out, Cobb. Look out, Ruth and Hornsby.”
“Go on, Percy,” Hoey said. “Tell em the rest.”
“Double worked as a nickname later not because I regularly knocked out two-baggers,” Dunnagin said, “but because I had a bad tendency to ground into double plays every time the Browns looked like they might score.” He stared past Clerval into the foyer, where a grandfather clock had begun to bong.
“Son, you’re modest to a sadistic extreme,” Mister JayMac told Dunnagin. “Tell them about your best year.”
“I hit .330 in 1926,” Dunnagin said, reciting it by rote and looking bored. “In ninety-four at bats, I had two home runs and fourteen doubles. But with more at bats in ’27 and ’28, my average fell off over sixty points both years.”
“Which means he’d’ve still outhit all but three other Hellbender starters here with us this evening,” Mister JayMac said. “A hand for Mr. Dunnagin, please.”
This time I led the applause. So what if he’d last put on his catcher’s getup for the Browns the year the stock market crashed? We had a near legend for a teammate, a fella who’d once hit over .300 in the bigs.
“With this leadership,” Mister JayMac said, “we belong in a tie for fourth about as much as Patton and Montgomery belong in a tie for anything with von Arnim and the Eye-talians. (No offense, Mr. Mariani.) So look to these men as inspiration and examples. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Nutter and Dunnagin returned to their spots in the parlor. Junior Heggie started to follow, but Mister JayMac halted him with the pointer. “Stay. We’re not quite finished. Darius.”
He whacked the chart.
Darius folded the franchise sheet over the back of the easel to show us a new page:
“Remember, gentlemen,” Mister JayMac said, “yall haven’t even played the Gendarmes or Linenmakers yet—one of the best teams and the absolute sorriest. So, mostly, we’ve lost to mediocrities and also-rans. Were I given to worry, I’d be a total ruin. But I’ve long since taken to heart the scriptural counsel that anxious thought adds not a minute to our lives, and I sleep like a babe in swaddling clothes.”
“Jesus,” Hoey said, not exactly reverently.
“Selah,” Mister JayMac said. “I’ve prayed and I’ve rounded up these fresh-faced youths.”
“Glory!” Quip Parris said. “What if they’re bums, sir?”
Mister JayMac smiled. “If yall wanted aiggs, would I foist on you scorpions?”
“Don’t like aiggs,” Burt Fanning said. No one else said a word.
“And so, gentlemen, I give you Messieurs Ankers, Boles, Heggie, and Dobbs,” Mister JayMac said. “They’ll no doubt irk a few of yall, but I also expect em to be a hypodermic in this team’s draggy ass. Now, give em another Hellbender welcome.”
A smattering of claps. Hoey, Jumbo, and Parris didn’t clap at all. But this time, Mister JayMac didn’t jump all over his men for cold-shouldering us.
He had Darius flip the chart page. Another chart came up. Then another one after that. And so on. A chart showing which CVL teams had ex-big leaguers. A map of Highbridge’s business district, another of the part of town called Penticuff Strip, and even one of Camp Penticuff itself, down to parade grounds, dining halls, obstacle courses, and ball fields. Would we all be inducted if we didn’t pass muster as Hellbenders? Anyway, Darius kept flipping the charts, and the grandfather clock in the foyer kept bonging out the quarter hours.
Finally, blueprints of every floor of McKissic
“Tell the boys your nickname,” Hoey said. His violinist act hadn’t made anybody laugh, so he was trying something else.
“ ‘Double,’ ” Dunnagin said. “My teammates on the Browns called me Double. In my first-ever at bat, against the Yankees, I slapped a two-bagger off Bullet Joe Bush. The ball scooted into the alley between Witt and Ruth. Well, I thought, I’m on my way. Look out, Cobb. Look out, Ruth and Hornsby.”
“Go on, Percy,” Hoey said. “Tell em the rest.”
“Double worked as a nickname later not because I regularly knocked out two-baggers,” Dunnagin said, “but because I had a bad tendency to ground into double plays every time the Browns looked like they might score.” He stared past Clerval into the foyer, where a grandfather clock had begun to bong.
“Son, you’re modest to a sadistic extreme,” Mister JayMac told Dunnagin. “Tell them about your best year.”
“I hit .330 in 1926,” Dunnagin said, reciting it by rote and looking bored. “In ninety-four at bats, I had two home runs and fourteen doubles. But with more at bats in ’27 and ’28, my average fell off over sixty points both years.”
“Which means he’d’ve still outhit all but three other Hellbender starters here with us this evening,” Mister JayMac said. “A hand for Mr. Dunnagin, please.”
This time I led the applause. So what if he’d last put on his catcher’s getup for the Browns the year the stock market crashed? We had a near legend for a teammate, a fella who’d once hit over .300 in the bigs.
“With this leadership,” Mister JayMac said, “we belong in a tie for fourth about as much as Patton and Montgomery belong in a tie for anything with von Arnim and the Eye-talians. (No offense, Mr. Mariani.) So look to these men as inspiration and examples. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Nutter and Dunnagin returned to their spots in the parlor. Junior Heggie started to follow, but Mister JayMac halted him with the pointer. “Stay. We’re not quite finished. Darius.”
He whacked the chart.
Darius folded the franchise sheet over the back of the easel to show us a new page:
“Remember, gentlemen,” Mister JayMac said, “yall haven’t even played the Gendarmes or Linenmakers yet—one of the best teams and the absolute sorriest. So, mostly, we’ve lost to mediocrities and also-rans. Were I given to worry, I’d be a total ruin. But I’ve long since taken to heart the scriptural counsel that anxious thought adds not a minute to our lives, and I sleep like a babe in swaddling clothes.”
“Jesus,” Hoey said, not exactly reverently.
“Selah,” Mister JayMac said. “I’ve prayed and I’ve rounded up these fresh-faced youths.”
“Glory!” Quip Parris said. “What if they’re bums, sir?”
Mister JayMac smiled. “If yall wanted aiggs, would I foist on you scorpions?”
“Don’t like aiggs,” Burt Fanning said. No one else said a word.
“And so, gentlemen, I give you Messieurs Ankers, Boles, Heggie, and Dobbs,” Mister JayMac said. “They’ll no doubt irk a few of yall, but I also expect em to be a hypodermic in this team’s draggy ass. Now, give em another Hellbender welcome.”
A smattering of claps. Hoey, Jumbo, and Parris didn’t clap at all. But this time, Mister JayMac didn’t jump all over his men for cold-shouldering us.
He had Darius flip the chart page. Another chart came up. Then another one after that. And so on. A chart showing which CVL teams had ex-big leaguers. A map of Highbridge’s business district, another of the part of town called Penticuff Strip, and even one of Camp Penticuff itself, down to parade grounds, dining halls, obstacle courses, and ball fields. Would we all be inducted if we didn’t pass muster as Hellbenders? Anyway, Darius kept flipping the charts, and the grandfather clock in the foyer kept bonging out the quarter hours.
Finally, blueprints of every floor of McKissic
Similar Books
