Sam Marino enjoys every Saturday morning.
He walks the three blocks to the Sportsmen’s Club, one of the few businesses on Main Street that continues to attract plenty of happy-go-lucky patrons.
Unfortunately, the only downer in Sam’s little stroll is the fact that he passes by Rasmussen Stadium.
Sam was the head groundskeeper at the stadium, but he was forced into retirement seven years ago when his services were no longer needed. Sam tries his best to keep his eyes glued to the sidewalk. He still has the keys to the old place, and if given the opportunity by the town officials, Sam would unlock the gate, go inside, and, in no time at all, whip the stadium into shape.
Pearl City should be celebrating the stadium’s twenty-fifth anniversary next summer; instead, it sits, ignored, as the cars zip by the old, historic field, leaving behind nothing more than maybe an ad section to an old Gazette newspaper, bouncing helplessly down the sidewalk at the corner of Third Street and Main.
Sam checked his watch. He had made the jaunt in record time. At sixty-five years of age, Sam was proud of himself for his ability to walk at such a brisk pace. He was in shape, and he figured that all those years of hard work at Rasmussen had a lot to do with his physical fitness.
Sam quickly crossed the street and entered the tavern. The bartender, Fred Warren, was busy cleaning glasses, and the boys were already sitting at the corner table, preparing for their first game of rummy.
“Come on, Sam. We’re ready for you, got your seat all warmed up for you.” Clyde Wilkinson said as he shuffled the deck of cards.
Sam sat down and glanced at the clock above the bar. It was ten o’clock. Thirty-five minutes later, Sam had a winner.
“Clyde, I don't know how you do it.” Walter Monroe said. “I can tell by just looking in your eyes that you’re about to lay down those cards of yours. You always start with the best hands and get ahead of us.”
“Yeah. I know, Walter,” Clyde Wilkinson said. “But you know what they say?”
“No, what do they say and who are they?”
“Well, I’m not sure who said it, but somebody said it.”
“All right, for goodness' sake,” piped up Nelson Peabody. “What do they say?”
“They say, it’s not how you start the game, but how you finish the game,” Clyde chipped in.
“Thank goodness we got that settled,” said Sam, who let out a smile and yelled “rummy” as he carefully placed all his cards on the table.
“Why, Sam, you old coot. You caught us looking,” Clyde said.
“No, I caught you talking.”
All four of them had plenty in common. They loved to play cards, take jibes at one another, and enjoy baseball. There wasn't a Saturday that went by without a lengthy discussion about America’s favorite pastime.
Sam was born in Brooklyn and is a die-hard Dodger fan. He didn't mind a bit when his favorite team moved to Southern California in 1958. Walter, the owner of the tavern, is from Baltimore and is a diehard Orioles fan.
As for Nelson and Clyde, they are a couple of retired postal workers and remain neutral. They love to watch the game. If anything, both Nelson and Clyde will pull for the underdog — the teams at the bottom of the standings who need a little cheering on.
“Sam, I see Claude Osteen won again last night. I know it’s still April, but do you think your Dodgers will make it back and win the pennant?” Clyde questioned.
“You bet. They will be there. They had a rough year last year and finished relatively low in the standings. I must admit, I think Walter’s Orioles have a shot this year. There’s a long way to go. It’s going to be a great season.”
“Yep!” Walter chimed in. “My Orioles are going to win it. When you've got the likes of a Frank Robinson, a Brooks Robinson, and a pitching staff with Mike Cuellar, Jim Palmer, and Ray McNally, you can’t go wrong.”
Sam had to counteract that thought. “But look at the Dodgers pitching staff, Don Sutton, Claude Osteen, Bill Singer, and Don Drysdale, even though Drysdale is probably in his final season. How can you go wrong, there?”
“You got a point there, Sam.” Nelson agreed as he dealt out the next hand.
Sam shifted the conversation from the national scene back to the local problem. “I sure miss having baseball around here.”
“Yeah!” Nelson chipped in. “Clyde, what’s the deal? You’re working part-time at the college. Have you heard any rumors about baseball coming back? I see a lot of new kids in town. You’d think there would be enough kids back in town to at least get some sandlot ball going this year, and just maybe there’s a chance for the baseball program over at the college to return.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Clyde, who works fifteen hours a week as a handyman at the college. “There’s a rumor floating around that Jim Johnson has hired a new English teacher from California, and according to what I heard from Jim’s secretary, Mildred Hanson, this guy is a former player and just may be in line to do some coaching.”
“Now, that is good news,” Walter added. “Did you catch this guy’s name?”
“Mildred said his name is Johnny… can’t think of his last name. Oh yes, Johnny Dugan. That’s it. Johnny Dugan.”
Walter thought for a moment. “Boy, that name sounds familiar. There was a Dutch Dugan who served as a hitting coach for the Orioles in the 1950s. Shoot, he would be in his eighties now.”
“No way!” Clyde said. “According to Mildred, this guy is in his mid-twenties. I also heard he was going to come up this summer and do a little fishing.”
Walter glanced above the bar at the many Baltimore Orioles pictures on the wall.
He muttered to himself. “No, it couldn’t be.”
*****
“Come on, Boomer, slow it down a little and give me something to hit,” Booker T said.
Boomer obliged. The tall right-hander reared back and let go with a made-to-order fastball right down the middle. Booker T swung and ripped the baseball over the head of Bumper.
The ball bounced twice and stopped suddenly, smack dab on top of a cow pie. “Ewe,” Bumper said. “Booker T, you come out here and get this ball.”
“No! Let Bugs get it…it’s his turn,” yelled back Booker T.
“Forget it,” Boomer said as he picked up another ball. “Hit this one.”
And so it went. Another Saturday in the McPherson’s pasture. The field was full of obstacles, in more ways than one, but the field served its purpose. It allowed the Rat Pack a place to play baseball.
Boomer looked at the Timex watch his dad had given him on his sixteenth birthday. “It’s time for dinner. We'd better head back to the house.”
Bugs picked up his catcher’s mitt and chest protector. “Gee, Boomer. When are we ever going to play on a real baseball field — in a real game again?”
“I don’t know, Bugs. But look at it this way. We have our built-in outfielders with all the old cow pies out there.”
“Very funny,” Bumper said, as he put his arm on the right shoulder of Booker T.
The four brothers picked up their bats and gloves and headed back to the farmhouse.
The boys bolted through the front door, put their baseball equipment away, washed up, and sat down at the dinner table just in time. Their mother brought out the chicken, mashed potatoes, black-eyed peas, and a nice salad, which included fresh tomatoes, recently plucked from the McPhersons’ garden.
Joel McPherson entered the room and tossed his John Deere cap on the hat rack and joined the rest of the family. “You kids get enough playing in today?“
“Sure did, Pop.” Bugs said. “We had to stop. It was getting pretty sticky out there.”
The McPherson brothers all laughed.
Gladys smiled, and Joel shook his head.
“All right now. It’s dinner time,” said Gladys, who knew full well what the joke was all about.
It was a typical Saturday evening for the McPherson clan — a good dinner, a little television watching, maybe a game or two of Scrabble to pass the time, and then off to bed.
Sunday would be a day of rest. The chores would be minimal, and then off to the morning church service and maybe, just maybe, some more pasture baseball in the afternoon. Monday would come soon enough. The boys would be up at the crack of dawn, finish their chores, and their father would have them crawl into the bed of the pickup truck, and they’d head up to the highway to await the school bus.
Boomer turned off the light, fluffed up his pillow, put his hands behind his head, and stared out the window. The sky was black. It was a clear night, and thousands of stars were twinkling.
He could hear his brothers bouncing around in the room next to him. He picked up a baseball from the nightstand and held it in the palms of his hands.
Someday soon, he hoped to play baseball again. He thought back to the summer of 1962. He missed the thrill and that instant surge of excitement when he unleashed his fastball toward the plate, and a second later, he would hear the umpire bellow, “Strike three!”
Boomer went to sleep. It wasn't long before his dream brought him to an even bigger stage. Instead of a pasture, it was Fenway Park, the seventh game of the World Series, and he could hear the announcer, “Now pitching for the Boston Red Sox…Boomer McPherson.”
Booker T. and Bumper were finally asleep. Bugs was still awake. Bugs tapped lightly on the wall, checking to see if his older brother was still awake. He listened. There was no return tap, so he rolled over and tried to sleep.
Within minutes, Bugs settled into his thoughts, back to his first year of baseball. It was the summer of 1961. He had just collected his first hit, a triple down the left field line, and he was off to the races as he stepped on first base, clipped the bag at second, and set his sights on third base.
Bugs, who had a strange habit of running the bases with his mouth wide open, ran smack dab into a grasshopper, who had decided to make its presence known by using the base runner’s tongue as a landing pad.
Bugs made it to third standing up, but he quickly called a timeout and coughed up the remnants of the unwanted visitor. His teammates roared with laughter in the dugout.
He was born Frederick Willis McPherson, but from that day forward, he had a new handle; he was known throughout the valley as Bugs McPherson.
It was okay with him. He liked the idea of having a nickname. His brother Gerald, aka Bumper, had one too, but he got his from being clumsy and constantly bumping into people.
As for Boomer and Booker T, well, they went by their real names, the names on their birth certificates. Booker T was named after his father’s brother, Booker Thompson McPherson, and, as for Boomer, well, he was born eleven pounds, eight ounces, and the name seemed to fit perfectly.
Bugs was now fast asleep and he dreamed of someday seeing his name in lights…his name on the scoreboard at Dodger Stadium, and he could hear the words from the stadium announcer, “Now batting for the Los Angeles Dodgers…Bugs McPherson.”
It was now ten o’clock. The McPhersons were all asleep. In a few hours, the rooster would come crowing.
*****
Thanks to directions from Thelma, Johnny had made his way to the Harrington House, a quaint bed and breakfast establishment on the northern outskirts of Pearl City. “You can’t go wrong at Anne’s place. Her rooms overlook a beautiful pond, and her place is situated just outside of the city limits, yet within three miles of downtown.”
Anne Harrington had turned her three-acre farm into a business, just one year after her husband, Henry, had passed away. She ran the place all by herself with the help this year of her grandson, Andy.
Johnny had spent a restless night at the Breeze Inn Motel. It was a nice enough place, but the first order of business on his first full day in Pearl City was to find a dwelling a little more to his liking.
He glanced at the napkin Thelma had handed him from the day before. “You go see Anne Harrington. She owns a bed and breakfast establishment at the top of the hill, overlooking Whipple Creek Road. She will do you right.”
Johnny showered and shaved. He picked out a clean pair of jeans from his suitcase and selected a navy blue pullover sweater from his hanger bag.
He tidied up the room and even went so far as to make the bed. He was a stickler for neatness. It was a good habit to have, but like many of his habits, he wasn't sure how he had developed them, or why.
As for the making of his bed, it was almost as if someone was watching him and would voice their disapproval if he didn't complete the chore.
It was a beautiful morning. The sky was clear. It was hard to believe he had gone through snow flurries the day before. He locked the motel room door and headed over to Thelma’s for breakfast. Thelma had the day off, so he sat at a corner table and read the local sports page.
An hour later, he was in his car, heading down Main Street in search of the turnoff that led to Whipple Creek Road.
The buildings in downtown Pearl City were old. A few were boarded up, yet many shops had "Open for Business" signs posted on their windows.
Johnny passed by the bank, the hardware store, a furniture store, and a tavern called the Sportsmen’s Club, which had a shadowy image of a baseball player on the front window. What’s up with that? Johnny eventually pulled into the self-service lane at the Texaco gas station on the northeast corner of Whipple Creek Road and Main Street.
A young man was in the garage changing the spark plugs on a 1957 Chevrolet. An older man emerged from the office, walked up to Johnny, and shook his hand.
Johnny noticed the man was wearing a green baseball cap. There was an oil-smudged fingerprint on the brim of the hat, and stenciled on the front of the hat in white lettering were the four letters: RATS.
“You must be Johnny Dugan,” said the man. “I’m Walker Sullivan. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Startled, Johnny shook the man’s hand and answered back. “You seem to know me, but I haven’t had the pleasure.”
The man smiled and said. “This is a small town, and besides, I stopped in at Thelma’s last night. It doesn't take long for the word to get around in Pearl City.”
The senior Sullivan continued. “Thelma is a great gal. She means no harm, and when somebody mentions baseball in this town, it gets everybody’s attention. So, you’re the new English teacher and baseball coach.”
“Yes, I guess I am. I thought I’d come up for the summer and check out the town. It seems like a nice place with friendly people.”
“That it is. We can always use a good teacher for our kids, but when it comes to baseball, you will have your work cut out for you. It’ll be like putting Humpty Dumpty back together again.”
“That’s what I heard,” Johnny said, shaking his head and wondering if Humpty Dumpty would be part of the curriculum at Pearl City College.
“I’ll tell you what. If you get a chance to put something together, you can count on the young man over there,” Walker Sullivan said, as he pointed to the garage. “He would love to get out from under those cars and back on the ball field. That’s my son, Silky.”
“Does he like to play baseball?”
“He sure does. He played for the Rats a few years back,” the senior Sullivan said as he adjusted his baseball cap. “He loves the game. You won’t have any trouble recruiting him.”
Johnny handed the man three dollars, glanced over at the young man in the garage, and gestured with a wave of his right hand as if to say, “We’ll meet again.” He crawled back into the Falcon, started the engine, and headed up Whipple Creek Road.
It didn't take him long to reach the outskirts of town. He could see the four-story Harrington House as he motored up the hill. A wooden post, with a hand-carved hoot owl sitting on top of it, stood at the entrance of a dirt driveway that curled its way around a couple of giant oak trees and eventually ended up near the front entrance.
Johnny turned and headed up the driveway. A dog followed the vehicle until Johnny pulled to a stop. The dog barked a few times and wagged his tail, leaving Johnny with the impression that the animal was of the friendly type.
Johnny got out of his car, patted the dog, walked up the steps, and knocked on the front door.
He noticed the sign on the door. It read: Harrington House, Bed and Breakfast. He glanced out the corner of his right eye and saw a woman stick her head out of the window curtain. A second later, the front door opened. A woman with a sweet smile peered through the screen and asked, “May I help you?”
“Yes,” Johnny said. “I’m looking for a room to rent, and Thelma said I should come and see you.”
“You must be Mr. Dugan.”
Johnny shook his head.
Johnny received a twenty-minute tour of the Harrington House. There were eight bedrooms; four bathrooms; a den with a fireplace; a huge living room; a dining room with a long maple table and ten chairs; and a large kitchen in the rear of the house, equipped with an assortment of copper-plated pots and pans, strategically placed on the wall over the stove.
It was a well-kept, comfortable place, just what Johnny was looking for.
I’ll take the room on the fourth floor, the one that has the window, overlooking the pond at the bottom of the hill.”
“Oh, the Brown room,” Anne said. “Good choice. I have all the rooms named after one color or another. That is a nice view. You’ll be able to open the window and get a nice afternoon breeze during the summer.”
Johnny gave Anne a generous deposit and also handed her enough money to cover his rent for a few weeks.
He shook Anne’s hand and told her he’d be able to move in on Monday morning. He jumped into his car and headed back to town. Johnny was pleased. Anne had promised him a home-cooked meal on Monday night. He was looking forward to it.
*****
It was early Monday morning. Jim Johnson walked out of the Capitol building, looked up at the blue sky, and put both his hands in the air.
“Finally!” he roared. “Finally!”
He checked his watch. It was 10:00 a.m. The early meeting with the Governor of the State, Paul Ryan, Pearl City Mayor Jack Oldham, and the executive president of Jackson Oil, Paul Jackson, had just broken up.
It took just two hours of negotiations to finalize an agreement that would bring baseball back to Pearl City. The hard work had finally paid off. Johnson headed up a group of Pearl City residents who called themselves: The Committee to Bring Rasmussen Back. The goal was to restore the old stadium, bring baseball back, and give Pearl City College a stadium to show off its baseball team.
Johnson’s next order of business was to meet with Johnny Dugan. And what a meeting it’ll be. The new man in town would be in for a big surprise. Johnson couldn’t wait until Monday afternoon; he couldn’t wait to sit down and discuss baseball with Dutch Dugan’s boy.
Monday turned out to be quite a day for Johnny Dugan.
First, he checked out of the motel, picked up some much-needed toiletry items from the store, and headed up to the Harrington House. He unpacked his suitcases and tidied up his room.
He met Jim Johnson for lunch and then received a tour of the college, including a look-see at the basketball facility, the locker rooms, a quick look, from the outside at least, of what was to be his new office… and the baseball field, of course.
Johnny thought the Pearl City College baseball field was in pretty good shape, considering the sport of baseball had been placed on the back burner for over half a decade.
“Surprised?” Johnson said. We hired Jed Stevens at the beginning of the school year last fall to head up our maintenance department. The man is pushing fifty. He is a skilled plumber and a versatile all-around fix-it guy. We discovered early on he had a hankering for working on the baseball field. It’s in pretty good shape, don’t you think?”
“Not bad,” Johnny said. “Too bad the field is not getting used.”
“You know, Mr. Dugan. I would like to remedy that situation. There is a man I want you to meet. I told him to meet us at two o’clock in my office. I know you just planned to come up for a few weeks, do some fishing, and get the feel of the place. But I would like to have you around for the summer. I've got plans for you. Are you game?”
“Well, I guess there’s no harm in talking,” Johnny said.
Jim introduced Johnny to the gray-haired gentleman, who was standing outside the Dean’s office. “Johnny, I want you to meet Jack Oldham, the Mayor of Pearl City.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir.”
Dean Johnson motioned for the two men to enter his office. He offered them both a chair, and then he sat down at his desk and opened a manila folder.
For the next thirty minutes, the two men explained to Johnny their plan for reviving baseball in Pearl City and the surrounding area.
“There you have it, Johnny.” Dean Johnson said as he handed the manila folder to the new Pearl City College baseball coach. “Inside the folder is a list of names. It’ll get you started. It won’t be easy, but we think you are the man for the job.”
“So, what do you say?”
Johnny stood up and shook hands with both gentlemen. He smiled and said, “I guess you officially have a new baseball coach. I’m surprised, Dean Johnson, that you have so much faith in me.”
“Johnny, my boy,” Johnson said. “I feel like I know you. I’ve been a baseball fan for fifty-five years. Dutch Dugan was my high school baseball coach and a good friend of mine. I heard he passed away back in 1967.”
The two men exchanged glances as Mayor Oldham looked on, smiling.
“You knew my father. You know the whole story about me, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. Johnny. I can’t tell you how proud I am to have you as our baseball coach…and English teacher, now don’t forget that.”
“Thank you,” Johnny said, as he shook hands first with Dean Johnson and then turned and offered his hand to Mayor Oldham. “It’s a small world.”
Mayor Oldham returned a firm handshake to Johnny and glanced at his watch. “Sorry, guys. I’ve got a meeting I’ve got to get to.”
Johnny, still startled, waved goodbye to the mayor and proceeded to pull up a chair in front of Dean Johnson’s desk.
Johnson sat back down in his leather chair and smiled, ready to enlighten his new baseball coach and loving every moment of it. “Dutch was my baseball coach — back in Conway, Arkansas. Dutch was a great man…”
Johnny listened attentively as Jim Johnson filled in some more of the blanks of his past — some more of the holes in the puzzle.
Johnson said he was not a very smart freshman at Conway High. He grew up on a farm six miles north of town, took a bus to school every day, and was just a farm boy, the only son of Mary and Dwight Johnson.
“I showed up for the first day of baseball practice with an old Rawlings glove, which, if I remember right, was missing some strings.”
Johnson continued to talk, as the new baseball coach of Pearl City College sat quietly, listening to every word. Johnny brushed away a tear as his past suddenly flashed before him.
“It was the beginning of a friendship, a friendship between a coach and a young boy. I didn’t know it at the time, but Dutch Dugan helped me put my life into perspective. I mirrored much of my life after him. I’ve spent all these years in the field of education, thanks in part to the image of Dutch Dugan. Every time I even thought about getting into trouble as a young boy, I’d think about Dutch.”
Johnny squirmed in his seat. It was as if he were listening to an older brother. He knew Dean Johnson was talking from the heart. It was evident his father and Dean Johnson had crossed paths.
“I lost track of Dutch for a while. I graduated from high school, went on to the University of Texas, and began my teaching career in Dallas, eventually relocating to Pearl City. My goodness, I’ve been here, going on fifteen years. One day, I stopped by Walter’s place, which was right after the oil riggers had played a game over at Rasmussen Stadium. I saw a pitcher on the wall of Dutch and the great Orioles’ manager, Paul Richards, and suddenly I knew where Dutch had ended up.”
As Johnny headed back to the Harrington House, he was emotionally spent. It had been another eventful day — one he would never forget. Johnny took a glance at the manila folder on the seat next to him and shook his head, realizing his life was rapidly changing, for the good. He could swear Dutch was sitting in the passenger seat next to him.
Jim and Mayor Oldham had put together not just a scheme to bring baseball back to Pearl City and Green River but a long-range, recreational program that would get everyone in town involved from eight to eighty. One thing was certain: the residents of this close-knit community seemed to have one thing in common - a passion for the American Pastime, baseball.
Johnny’s passion for the sport started a long time ago. Every day, another fragment of his past would pop into that fractured mind of his, allowing him to recall another part of the puzzle, which would bring him closer to the answer to the questions: What makes him tick, and why did he have such an obsession with baseball?
The frequent headaches had become less severe. And there were times he welcomed the annoying pain because it allowed him to come to grips with another fragment of his past.
He knew this much for sure. Dutch had been his only relative. But sadly, Dutch had passed away close to three years ago at the age of seventy-nine, leaving Johnny with so many unanswered questions.
Unfortunately, Johnny had been in a coma at the time of Dutch’s passing. He lived in darkness, unaware of the world and its surroundings.
His weekly sessions with Dr. Ian Stone, back in San Diego, had certainly helped. Each meeting had drawn Johnny closer to the complete picture.
Johnny would need to return to San Diego in early October for another therapy session with Dr. Stone, and with all the flashbacks he was having, he was hoping to have a handle on his past by the end of the summer.
He was hoping, as was Dr. Stone, that the new surroundings in Colorado would allow him the time to relax and absorb all the latest data rattling around in his brain.
Johnny had been in town three days, and Dr. Stone had been right on the money.
Yes, Dean Johnson was right. Dutch Dugan was his father. He discovered, during one of Dr. Stone’s therapy sessions, that his hospital bills had been paid, and the signature on all of the paperwork listed Dutch Dugan as the father of Johnny Dugan.
Dutch had been sick for the last few years of his life, living in a rest home on the outskirts of Baltimore. At the time of the accident, Dutch was sitting in a wheelchair, watching the evening sports news on television. A report filtered across the screen. It was about a talented, young pitching prospect who had just been brought up from the minors — the young man was just hours away from signing a contract to play for the Los Angeles Dodgers.
Unfortunately, Johnny remembered very little about his life before the accident. He tried desperately to bring Dutch to the forefront of his thoughts. What he did know: Dutch had left him a substantial amount of money.
After his recovery, Johnny returned to school and received his teaching degree. It wasn’t easy, but Johnny, despite battling memory loss, persevered and graduated from the University of Southern California.
So far, he hadn’t put the degree to good use. Johnny had been a beach bum for the last six months.
Now was his chance. His chance to get back to the game he loved. The game of baseball. He had been living on the edge, waiting and waiting to complete the puzzle and get his life back together again.
Johnny pulled into the driveway at the Harrington House. Rusty, the golden retriever, was there to meet him. He gave the dog a friendly pat and headed into the house.
It was time for the home-cooked meal Mrs. Harrington had promised.
Johnny spent the next morning going over the list of names in the folder. Surprisingly, there were a hundred names on the list — all of them either ball players or volunteers with one common goal: to get baseball back in their valley.
The plan presented by the mayor and Jim included setting up a recreational baseball league for the younger set to be played at Whipple Creek Park and the old field in Green River. Jim would have his secretary, Mildred, print up some flyers announcing the formation of the youth league and have them distributed to the local businesses and to all the parents she had addresses for.
Johnny contacted Jed Stevens. He had no trouble at all convincing Jed to work on the two old sandlot fields. The fields hadn’t been used since 1962. The fields needed a lot of work, but Jed convinced Johnny he would have them in running order by the middle of May.
Of course, the most significant part of the new plan involved Jim Johnson’s idea of creating a town team capable of competing in the Rocky Mountain Summer Baseball League. This league has been in existence for over twenty years and currently consists of six well-established teams from across the state, most of which are from larger towns, twice the size of Pearl City.
The team with the best record at the end of the summer wins the traveling trophy. Grand Valley, the defending champion, will have its hands full hanging on to the hardware this summer due to the loss of three of its best players, all of whom recently graduated from Grand Valley High and received baseball scholarships to Northwest College.
On the list of names in the folder was Walter Monroe, the owner of the Sportsmen’s Club over on Third Street and Main. He offered to donate the necessary funds needed for the brand-new baseball uniforms for Pearl City's Rocky Mountain Summer League team.
According to reports, the Pearl City Ladies Auxiliary, which included four seamstresses renowned for their exceptional sewing machine skills, also offered their services. One of the ladies on the list was Anne Harrington.
Jim had gone so far as to compile a list of names of some Pearl City residents who might be available to coach or help supervise what could be as many as four teams for the youth leagues.
As Johnny continued to eye the folder, something else caught his attention. The words: Rasmussen Stadium, see Sam Marino. Johnny remembers a comment from Dean Johnson, “Who knows. If this all works out and the oil companies want to foot the bill, there’s a chance we could run down old Sam Marino, maybe he’d open up Rasmussen Stadium over on Main. That would be icing on the cake.”
But the big job at hand would be for Johnny to put together a town team good enough to compete against the likes of Grand Valley and the rest of the Rocky Mountain League, which consisted of teams from Roaring Fork, Garden Grove, Monroe Heights, Garland City, and Baxter Hollow.
To top it all off, he had less than a month to complete it. Jim advised him, “If you can put a team together, I think I can convince Roy Thornton, the president of the summer league, to let us in. He’s a successful insurance man over in Grand Valley, a tough cookie, but he’s up for it and awaiting my call.
According to Jim, Thornton is also the manager of the Grand Valley White Sox. Jim said, “I know Thornton pretty well, and I have a feeling he’d love to have a new team in the league to pound on.”
Johnny needed to hit the road and scan the countryside to recruit players. He needed help. He needed someone who not only knew the area but also knew the local ballplayers.
Dean Johnson had said to him, “There’s a lot of talent in and around Pearl City. It’ll be your job to pull these athletes out of the holes they’ve been in for the past seven years.”
He found his helper the following evening at the Harrington House dinner table.
“Mr. Dugan, I want you to meet my grandson, Woodrow,” Anne said with a wide smile.
Johnny reached out to shake hands with the boy. It turned out to be an awkward handshake as the boy first reached out with his left hand, and then quickly changed, offering his right hand instead.
“Nice to meet you, Woodrow.”
“You can call me Woody,” the blond, curly-headed teenager said.
“Good, you can call me Johnny.”
Woody sat quietly and ate his dinner while his grandmother explained to Johnny about Woody’s horrible accident last summer. Johnny glanced over at Woody and could tell from Woody’s facial expression that he’d heard the story too many times already.
“It was on the Fourth of July last year, and Woody and two of his friends were setting off firecrackers. Unfortunately, one of the firecrackers was defective and exploded in the palm of Woody’s left hand, resulting in the loss of three of his fingers.”
“Woody went through a tough summer and a long, hard winter, but he bounced back, and last spring, he finished second in the 100-yard dash, third in the long jump, and won the high jump event at the district track and field meet,” Anne added.
“Wow!” Johnny said. “Do you play other sports, too?”
Woody perked up. “No…not anymore. I used to play baseball. I played on the Green River Rats when I was ten. We had an excellent team and I didn’t get to play too much, pitched a little — even started one game. But nobody plays baseball in town anymore, and besides, without these fingers, I’d have a hard time catching the ball, anyway.”
“What’s wrong with your right hand? Johnny asked.
“Nothing, sir, I mean nothing, Johnny.”
“Well, maybe I can be of some help,” Johnny said.
Anne interrupted, “Woody, Johnny is the new English teacher and the new baseball coach over at Pearl City College. He’s staying with us for a while.”
“Cool!” Woody said with a grin.
Anne interrupted again. “Mr. Dugan, Woody’s parents are in Europe for the next few months on a business trip. So, I’m thrilled to have him here, even though I’m pretty sure Woody might get a little bored hanging around the Harrington House and doing chores for me.”
“Well, Woody. I might have a proposition for you,” Johnny said.
“What is that?”
“Woody, it just so happens, I’ve been asked to stay around for the summer and put together a town team. I’ve got a month to get the team together and bring baseball back to the valley.”
“I need someone who knows all the ball players around here, where they live, and how to get hold of them. If you’re my man, I’ll work with you on getting you baseball-ready with that right arm of yours. Trust me, I’ll explain it all later, but I once knew a professional player who played with one arm. He could hit and field. It can be done. Do I have a deal?”
“You sure do, coach!”
Suddenly, Johnny loved the sound of the word: Coach.
Coach Dugan had his first recruit.
Johnny stood up and held out his index finger to signify the number one. Woody stood up and did the same. They both smiled.
“Woody, do you know where the McPherson farm is?”
“I sure do.”
“Good, meet me here for breakfast tomorrow morning, and we’ll head out to Green River.”
“Okay, coach!”
Woody headed upstairs to his room. Anne walked over to Johnny and gave him a big hug. “You certainly put a smile on his face. Are you sure Woody can do this?”
“I’m sure he can, Anne. Don’t you worry? I’ll take good care of him.”
A startled Coach Dugan looked at the alarm clock. It was just after midnight when he heard the shutters knocking against the bedroom wall.
He got out of bed and walked over to the window. The cool breeze felt good on his face, and the reflection of the moon illuminated the pond below and lit up the night sky. It all had a calming effect on him.
Moments ago, he was recalling a fragment of his past.
Johnny had just hit a shot to right field. The one-armed outfielder had reached the warning track, looked up, and caught the ball, robbing Johnny of a home run.
Johnny rounded first base, stopped suddenly, and headed back to the dugout. Three hours later, Johnny was at a restaurant, enjoying a post-game meal, when in walked the one-armed bandit who had stolen his homer.
He motioned for the ballplayer to come over to his table.
“Have a seat. My name is Johnny Dugan. That was a great catch you made today. Being a pitcher, I don’t get many chances to get a hit, much less a shot at a homer. I’m going to remember you.”
“My teammates call me Chico. You hit the ball well for a pitcher. You guys still got the best of us, and I heard that was your tenth win of the season.”
Johnny rubbed his eyes and stared at the pond. Another fragment was in place. It was a Class-A game in Mobile, Alabama. Johnny and his teammates had won the game, and the one-armed man was Chico Romero, who played four years in the minors before returning to Mexico to coach in his home country.
When he was sixteen, Romero lost his left arm in a hunting accident, but he didn’t allow his disability to keep him from playing baseball. It took time, but he eventually taught himself how to catch, throw, and hit with one arm.
Chico became so good at it that he caught the eye of a baseball scout and landed a contract in the Mexican League at the age of eighteen.
Johnny went back to bed. Not only did he have another piece of his past in place, but he knew exactly how to help his recruit, Woodrow Harrington.
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