Chapter 8: A Blossom by Any Other Name

After our first winning series of the year, the Dorsey Boys are all jazzed up for the first Chicago visit by the 13-5 Birmingham Armstrongs. But I guess you can say I’m distracted.

As you might remember, I met Blossom Pickering, the Governor of Alabama’s pretty daughter, when I accidentally grazed her forehead with a foul ball on our first road trip. All that came out of that was a couple of exchanged letters, but it’s been over a month since I’ve heard from her and I’m still hoping she’s one of those fans who follows their team around.

So when Keller and Gordon and Reiser and Arky Vaughn invite me to play a little pepper before game time, I have to say no. Scouting the stands with my periscope eyes, the last thing I want is a ball off MY noggin. Cullenbine and Feller are the only team members wise to the situation anyway, so I set up a leisurely catch with Cully just outside our dugout.

It’s sticky hot, and the crowd for the first game already has their fans and scorecards flapping like butterfly wings. Cully is still whining about the cash he lost playing chess in Detroit, and I make a brain note to ask Appling for a different roommate for our upcoming three-city road trip.

It’s about then that a peanut shell skips off the top of my cap. I turn, see Blossom herself leaning over the box seat rail with a playful smile and Cully’s next toss thumps me in the chest. I stagger a bit, grab the ball and throw it back to him. Backpedal ever so carefully to the railing to talk to Blossom without looking at her, which is next to impossible.

“I thought I might see you here…How are you?”

“Just fine! We’re a game in front of the Ellingtons and hope to stretch that business.”

Cully rolls his eyes, glances around to make sure no one’s watching and fires the next ball harder at me.

“I guess we’ll see about that. We took two from the Calloways last time out…I’ve been um, thinking about you quite a bit…Been thinking about me?

“Mmmm…You crossed my mind.”

I sneak a longer look. She wears a beautiful black and yellow shirt with a fancy flower and plant design, a dark green shirt and cute little feather hat that makes her look taller than she is.

“You came to Chicago by yourself?”

“Uh-uh. Got a couple of girlfriends back up in the shade. Mary and Lucy. Maybe you’ll meet them later.”

“Well, I was hoping maybe…I could meet you later.”

She cracks open a new peanut, tosses the insides at me. I catch the nuts in my glove.

“You know you shouldn’t be doing that…”

“Of course I do. But I’m a chance-taker, Blossom. Why else would I be on this team?”

“Because you’re good. At least I think so. What’s your slugging average?”

“Got me there. Haven’t checked the newspaper lately.”

“Mmm-hmm. Tell you what…” She leans closer. “Have yourself a good day at the plate, make sure your buddies don’t, then meet me at the Painting Institute of Chicago between four and five. They have a very promising show of 19th century fusionists there.”

I’m about to ask what the heck fusionists are but she smiles and heads back to the shade at the same time Cully hurls a ball in the direction of my collarbone. “Did I just hear something about girlfriends?” he asks, but all I can do is shrug.

Leon Day pitches for Birmingham, who’s been just about unhittable so far, but from the first inning it’s clear that no one on our club got the telegram. We score a run on him right away on a Ted Williams DP ball, and then the 2nd inning happens. Travis, Dickey, Gordon and pitcher Riddle all single with one gone, Arky lines out, and then I walk to the plate.

I have no idea which piece of  shade Blossom is sitting in, and that’s a good thing because it keeps my eyes trained on Day’s pitches. On a 3-1 count he tries to sneak a fastball past and I rip it on a line deep to right. Bullet Joe Rogan races to the wall as I’m nearing first and I see him leap and hang his head. Yowee! A grand slammer! Only my second homer of the year but add that to my slugging average, Blossom!

The Armstrongs react like they’ve been kicked in the guts, and get nothing of Riddle but two singles and a double the entire game. Meantime we score three more times off Day and smack Rube Foster around for seven more in the 8th, long after I’ve been relieved for defense, and Johnny Mize whacks one that goes ten miles. We haven’t had an easy game like this all year, and it’s incredible that it happens against the first-place Birminghamers.

I’m the first out of the locker room and reach the museum by 4:15, but Blossom isn’t there yet. I spend the next hour reading about each fusionist painting, how the great African painters influenced the more primitive American styles a century ago, just so I’ll sound like I know something, but Blossom never shows up. The place closes at six and I’m wondering what happened. Okay, I did hit a grand slam against her team and we obliterated them, but what does that have to with us? Kind of childish, the more I think about it.

So I stop thinking. Just show up for baseball work the next day, collect two walks and a single off Chet Brewer and watch us squeak out a win after we have a 3-0 lead through five. Williams hits his 6th homer but the Armies hit themselves back to life by roughing up Ruffing with three runs in the 8th to take a 4-3 lead. We then knock Brewer out in the bottom of the inning with two walks and a single to tie the game. William Bell takes the ball and Dickey relieves him of it, planting a 3-run shot in the upper deck!

Except for the first game, though, it’s never easy against Birmingham. Al Benton relieves Ruffing, and after a Pop Lloyd single, wild pitch, walk to Rogan and double to Willard Brown, it’s 7-6 us with the go-ahead runs aboard. Benton bears down, gets the lethal Biz Mackey on a roller, and we have our very first pitching save of the year!

It’s bittersweet for me, though, because I don’t even see Blossom in the stands for this one and I bet she never even leaves the shade. I run into some Armstrong players later, make some crafty inquiries and find out from Oscar Charleston that Blossom and her friends are staying at the fancy Palmer House Hotel. I make my way over there and bribe a white luggage man to get her room number.

I take a maid’s elevator upstairs, knock on Blossom’s door. I hear someone inside, probably staring through the peephole, and call her name. Right after I knock a second time two security men grab me, haul me back down the service elevator and chuck me into an alley.

An hour or two at the Skunk Den eases the pain, and my head is still sweetly foggy the next morning when there’s a knock on my apartment door. I swing it open in my underwear and there’s Blossom standing there, holding a red rose.

“I feel terrible. Can we go on a picnic today?”

I tell her I have to play ball, but she reminds me that Big Bill Foster is going and I’d probably be benched for Keller anyway because my average vs. lefties is “less exciting.” Where did this remarkable woman come from?

Cully agrees to tell Appling I’m in bed with the flu, I wash and dress while Blossom hums to herself in the hall—still a bit nervous about being in my scary white neighborhood—and then we’re off in search of a picnic. It’s a beautiful day, less humid, and we spend the whole of it in Carver Park, strolling the lakefront, dining on sandwiches and root beer on a grassy lawn, even going out in a rowboat. I was so wrong about Blossom I’m ashamed of myself. She wasn’t angry at me because my team killed hers, she was crushed, because she really likes me and was thrilled for my grand slam but the loss was too much to bear and she didn’t want me to see her cry.

Anyway, her choice to come look me up pays off, because the rowboat guy has the last game going on his radio, and even though Keller and Williams hit back-to-back homers for us, Whit Wyatt has nothing, and Birmingham pulls out the 5-3 win pretty easy.

Blossom has promised to write while we’re bussing our way through Newark, Kansas City and Pittsburgh, because she knows how brutal these next few weeks through hostile territory might be. I get a taste of this while I’m walking her back to the Palmer House, when a well-dressed older man who reminds me of her father crosses the street, glares at us and whacks my leg with his cane as he passes. I swear he calls me a “bastard milkie” under his breath, but I don’t want to react. We’ve come this far in the Bragging Rights League, the Dorseys just a game out of third place now, that cool heads are really the only things we should have. —J.G. Heath

BIRM 000 000 000 – 0 3 1
CHC 151 002 07x – 16 18 1

W-Riddle L-Day HRS: Heath, Mize

BIRM 000 001 032 – 6 10 0
CHC 002 010 04x – 7 9 2

W-Ruffing L-Brewer SV-Benton HRS: T. Williams, Dickey GWRBI-Dickey

BIRM 300 001 001 – 5 9 0
CHC 002 000 001 – 3 10 1

W-Foster L-Wyatt HRS: Brown, Keller, T. Williams, Chapman GWRBI-Brown

*   *   *

with Jupiter Dobbs
Pittsburgh Courier Baseball Blabber

BASIES 15-20-0, at JORDANS 8-15-2
at JORDANS 11-15-0, BASIES 7-17-2
BASIES 3-6-0, at JORDANS 2-6-1
Yep, our Jordannaires are a less-than-whopping 2-10 at old Greenlee now, so I say throw that home cooking out to the dogs and feed ’em train grub. Them and the Basies took turns pasting each other in the first two messes, Phil Cockrell not exactly being a rooster when he gave the K.C. men seven runs in the 2nd before we pounded Bill Drake for a 10-1 lead in Game 2 before Jud Wilson started hitting for them. In the finale Satch Paige finally found his magical stuff, struck out ten of us without walking one and gave up solo shots to Turkey and Rap most likely because he was just bored. Pittsburgh’s in the big 4-team hog pile, safely away from the two contenders, and with the sad way our biggest clubbers are still snoring, if it weren’t for Superman Pennington we’d certainly be the league caboose.

at ELLINGTONS 7-10-0, CALLOWAYS 3-10-1
Three easy Newark wins by nearly the same line score, as the Ellies took over the top spot with great pitching and timely hits, which isn’t all that difficult when you know what you’re doing. The poor Callows have fallen on very hard times, and their former loud blasting got reduced to mouse peeps here by the likes of Hilton Smith, Double Duty and Smokey Joe, complete game-throwers all. Those uppity white Dorseys will creep into Ruppert Stadium next week to try their luck, but I wouldn’t wager on them surviving. Visiting teams are a paltry 1-8 in that grand yard. Until then, baseball bees and flowers!

Team Hitting, Team Pitching, and Assorted Miscellany

Newark Ellingtons 15 6 .714
Birmingham Armstrongs 14 7 .667 1
Pittsburgh Jordans 9 12 .429 6
Detroit Calloways 9 12 .429 6
Chicago Dorseys 8 13 .381 7
Kansas City Basies 8 13 .381 7

2 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. Eeeks. A loss of place…first place, that is.

    The Birmingstrong edge in the Assorted Miscellany statistical category disintegrates into a sordid mistake of a series against the Dorseys. Thank goodness for Big Bill Foster to get us back in business in game three.

    Haven’t quite figured out this Blossom/Heath intrigue yet, but wonder if Heath will get busted for flying the coop with a flu excuse. Either by the Dorseys management…or the Governor of Alabama! Does Pittsburgh Courier spheroid scribe Jupiter Dobbs have a gossip column colleague?

    Meanwhile, the pressure is on the B-Hams to stick close to the New-Ellies, what with a series at Ruppert being an almost guaranteed sweep for Newark. Who do my Birmingham bombers have to take on this week as we try to keep contending?

    • Your B-Hams (love that!) host the underachieving Jordans, with Jupe Dobbs up in the press box. The scary thing about the Ellies is that Josh Gibson isn’t even hitting yet, but the Dorseys have definitely improved with their new acquisitions, so we’ll see.

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