The recruitment process...
“Coach!” Woody said. “Turn here,” as he pointed to the unmarked road, just a hundred yards north of the four-way stop. “That’s the McPherson Ranch Road.”
“I was here once. We came out here last October when the McPhersons were selling pumpkins. We bought a few pumpkins and rode around in their old flatbed truck. It was a lot of fun.”
Johnny made the turn and headed down the dirt road. He could see the red barn in the distance. About four hundred yards east of the barn stood the two-story ranch house, nestled behind a group of tall trees.
A woman, with her hair in curls and a broom in her hands, was busy sweeping the front porch. She stopped, put the broom down, and stepped off the porch as Johnny and Woody pulled into the driveway.
“Hi, you must be Mrs. McPherson,” Johnny said, as he rolled down the car window.
“Yes, I surely am. May I help you?”
“My name is Johnny Dugan, and this is Woody Harrington. We’re here to see Boomer and the boys.”
“Hello. Why do I know Woody? How are you doing, Woody? I haven’t seen you since last Halloween. And it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dugan. The boys are out in the field with their dad, but they’re due back at any time. Why don’t you come in and have something to drink? They’ll be along.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McPherson, Johnny said. “That is very nice of you.”
Johnny and Woody had a pleasant thirty-minute conversation with the lady of the house. They both sipped on a glass of milk and put away a plate full of Mrs. McPherson’s homemade chocolate cookies.
“Baseball!” Gladys said. “Mr. Dugan, you’re gonna put smiles on the faces of my boys.”
Woody heard the chugging noise of a tractor. He got up from the table and glanced out the window, and sure enough, the tractor was pulling into the barn.
He watched the four McPherson brothers jump off the tractor. They eyed the strange car with the California plates, and then high-tailed it up to the main house.
Johnny, Woody, and Mrs. McPherson greeted them at the front porch.
“Boys, I want you to meet Johnny Dugan and, of course, you know Woody,” Gladys said, as she watched her boys shake hands with the handsome visitor. “Mr. Dugan has something to tell you, boys. Why don’t you show him around the place, take him up to the ball field, I’ll help your father finish up in the barn.”
Johnny watched Woody and the McPherson boys jog up the narrow path that led past the side of the red barn and out toward a locked gate. He could see a set of tractor tracks on the other side of the gate. The tracks weaved left, then right, and eventually curled up over a hill, disappearing from view.
“It’s this way, Mr. Dugan,” Boomer said.
“You might as well call me Coach Dugan, son.”
“That’s okay with me, coach.”
Johnny picked up the pace and kept shoulder to shoulder with the boys until they reached the top of the hill. He then stopped, caught his breath, and took a look at the makeshift ball field below. The five boys had already high-tailed it down the hill and awaited his arrival.
Johnny surveyed the field.
The McPherson boys had painted the first and third baselines. The lines were a little wiggly. Choppy would be more like it. Johnny eyed the outfield. It certainly looked like a diamond, maybe not a diamond in the rough, but a baseball diamond, nonetheless.
The boys straddled the top railing of a nearby wooden fence. Bugs was the first to explain to Johnny just how they put the field together.
“We used the old tractor to smooth out the surface. We cut out a piece of an old tractor tire for home plate, and we used gunnysacks for the bases, but we ended up covering the bases with flat rocks because if we didn’t do that, the wind would come along and the gunnysacks would go sailing.”
Johnny suddenly reached for his forehead. The sharp pain subsided.
“You okay, Mr. Dugan?” Booker T said with a concerned look.
“I’m fine,” Johnny said. “I’m just a little winded.” His mind had just taken him far away from the McPherson’s ball field and far away from Colorado.
“Hey, Johnny O! Mr. Tully wants to see you in his office,” a tall, skinny boy said. “You have a visitor!” Johnny climbed down from the bleachers. The game was almost over anyway. He didn’t get to play today. The older boys had said he wasn’t good enough to start the game, and maybe they’d let him sub in the next inning, but what the heck. He was tired of waiting.
As if he had any choice. Mr. Tully had very little patience. He was a tough old goat, but Johnny figured he was a busy man and just didn’t have a lot of time to waste. After all, there were fifty kids at the Baltimore Home for Boys, and he was just one of them. And besides, he was the youngest. He figured he went unnoticed most of the time because Mr. Tully spent most of his time ramrodding the older boys.
Johnny opened the door to Mr. Tully’s office and walked in. Tully stood up and said, “Johnny O, I want you to meet Dutch Dugan.”
The name is Johnny O. Flash! A piece of the puzzle fell into place. Johnny remembered now. He had been left on the doorstep at the Baltimore Home for Boys. He was barely six months old. Dutch had said to him years later. “It was the middle of October for goodness' sake, snow on the ground, cold, you were wrapped in a blanket and cuddled up in a basket.”
Booker T. put his fingers through the backstop behind home plate. He looked up and asked Johnny: “Well, what do you think of this chicken wire for a backstop?”
It looks pretty good, except for a couple of big holes in the center,“ replied Johnny, after shaking his head a few times, allowing for his return from his fuzzy past back to the present day. He looked down at his feet, planted squarely on the dirt surface that belonged to the McPherson pasture…and he was in Colorado, not Baltimore, Maryland.
“Yeah, Mr. Dugan.” Bumper said. “That’s Boomer’s fault. He keeps knocking holes through the fence with that fastball of his!”
“Let’s hope he continues to do that when we start playing baseball in a few weeks.”
“Baseball! In a few weeks!” Boomer exclaimed. What are you talking about, coach?”
“That’s why I’m here. To sign you up to play baseball.”
“That’s the third time today I’ve been called coach. I like the sound of it.”
“Gosh! I know there are some new kids in town, Boomer said. “A couple of big oil companies are back in town, and it looks like they are here to stay this time. They employ a lot of people. We’ve seen some new kids at the high school, and the enrollment at the two elementary schools has practically doubled, but I’m not sure how many of the kids are interested in playing baseball.”
“I’ve got the list right here,” Johnny said, as he pulled the list out of his back pocket and shook it in front of the faces of the four McPherson boys.
“Let’s see!” Bugs said.
“Silky is on the list. He played with us back in ’62, but I don’t recognize some of the others. Boomer, do you know a kid named Tank Parker or a Billy Bob Stilwell?”
“No,” Boomer said. “I don’t think they are from around here.”
Bugs continued to eye the list of names. “Hey, what about me and Bumper, are we old enough for the Rocky Mountain League?”
“You and Bumper may have a shot,” Johnny said. “I’ll have to see if Booker T qualifies. How old are you, Booker?”
“Old enough.”
Boomer chipped in. “Booker T plays like a 20-year-old!”
“Hey, Boomer,” yelled Bumper. “The Johnson twins are on the list. They were in my class this year. I heard both of them were held back two years because they couldn’t read a lick, but old Doc Smith discovered the problem in their sophomore year. It wasn’t that they couldn’t read — they both needed glasses. Man, they both finished at the top of the class this year. I had no idea they liked baseball.”
Boomer walked over and looked over Bumper’s shoulder.
“Let me see the list.”
Boomer noticed the name of a classmate he hadn’t seen in a year. “Ricky Hightower is on the list! I thought he was still in a correction center in Denver.”
“No, he’s out,” Bugs said. “I talked to his sister, Jane, last week, and she told me he’s back home, earned his diploma while he was away, and straightened himself out. I heard he was gonna go to Pearl City College in the fall.”
Booker T piped up. “He’s a good athlete…won the 100-yard dash at school as a freshman. He probably won’t last. Ricky used to hang out with those hoodlums over at the Bronco Burger on Friday nights.”
“I don’t know about that.” Bugs said. “Jane told me that Ricky is a completely different guy since he got back from Denver.”
“Let’s check him out,” Johnny said. “Everyone deserves a second chance. Woody, you know where Ricky lives?”
“Yeah! I think the Hightower place is just two miles from here. They have about forty acres. I think the ranch is a bit run-down. Richard Hightower is Ricky’s father, and he’s a broken-down old cowboy who drinks his share of whiskey. So, it might not be an enjoyable visit.”
“Oh, I think we can handle it,” Johnny said.
Bumper, who had grabbed hold of the list of names and had walked toward the pitcher’s mound, stopped suddenly.
“Woody, what is Lightning Bean Williams doing on the list? She won the high jump and finished second in the 220 at the State Finals last year. Is she back in town for the summer? I think she starts her sophomore year in the fall up at Colorado Tech.”
“Well, I’ll be!” Woody exclaimed. Coach, can we have girls on the team?”
“Why not? Besides, we are not in any position to turn away an athlete of that caliber at this point.”
“Wow,” Woody said. “Some of us haven’t played baseball in seven years. You’ve got a handful of unknown players who may or may not have played baseball before. You got a guy missing a couple of fingers, a guy just out of the correctional center…and a girl! And, I know for a fact the summer league takes no prisoners — some of the ballplayers are twice our age. Are you sure we can do this, coach?”
“I’m sure of it, Woody. Are you guys ready for this?”
Woody raised his hand.
The four McPherson boys raised their hands.
Johnny smiled. “And now we have five.”
Johnny and Woody left the McPherson ranch and headed north toward the Hightower place. They now had the beginning of a TEAM. Of course, Johnny could rest easy now that they had Boomer McPherson signed up. If he were as good as advertised, he’d be the ace on the pitching staff.
Except for the young mechanic, Silky, who seemed to be a shoo-in, Johnny wasn’t sure what to expect next, but he was about to find out as he pulled his car alongside a wooded post that housed a white mailbox. The words on the mailbox read: Richard Hightower.
“This is it,” Johnny said, as he glanced over at Woody. “Are you ready for this?”
“I think so, coach.”
Johnny noticed fresh paint on the mailbox, and he also saw a section of the Hightower fence that bordered the right side of the road had recently been mended. “It looks like somebody has been busy. Someone has been out here doing some repair work.”
The Falcon left a cloud of dust in its wake as Johnny hit the accelerator and headed up the narrow road.
It didn’t take long to reach the entrance to the Hightower ranchhouse.
Woody noticed Jane sitting on the porch. An elderly man sat in a rocking chair next to Jane. In the distance, over by the corral, Johnny caught a glimpse of a boy sawing away at what looked to be a wagon load of fence posts. “Woody, is that Ricky?” Johnny said as he pointed toward the corral.
“That’s him. Looks like he’s put on a few pounds.”
Johnny pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and shook hands first with Jane, and then introduced himself to the old cowboy. “I’m Johnny Dugan.”
“I’m Jane,” the young girl said, “and this is my father, Richard Hightower.”
The cowboy stood up. Johnny noticed the man was tall, about 6 feet 2 inches, and he was wearing an old pair of brown boots, narrow at the toes. He wore a long-sleeve plaid shirt, a pair of dusty jeans, and an old black stetson with water stains around the brim.
“They call me Ace,” the cowpoke said, “I have some bad arthritis in my right hand.” He held out his left hand and shook hands with Johnny.
Woody looked on in awe. He was expecting a fallen-down drunk; instead, the cowboy seemed to be very pleasant. Not what Woody expected.
“I’m new in town,” Johnny said. “I start teaching at Pearl City College in the fall, and I’m up here for the summer. I’m putting together a baseball team to play in the Rocky Mountain Summer Baseball League. Mr. Hightower, we are here to recruit your boy.”
“Well, sir. My son is out by the barn, working on some fence posts. Baseball! Ricky kinda sticks to himself. He’s not, how should I say it? Not the joiner type. However, you are welcome to speak with him. Jane will show you the way.”
“Follow me,” Jane said.
Jane glanced over at Woody. “How have you been, Woody? I haven’t seen you in a while. You probably won’t recognize Ricky. He’s bulked up since you saw him last. And boy, has he changed since that miserable stay he had in Denver. Whatever happened up there was for the good. He’s been a workhorse around here. He’s been fixing everything, and he’s been getting along with Pop. He’s very quiet, though, and he likes to hang around the ranch. Doesn’t like to go into town much.”
Jane eyed the good-looking man. “Sir, Ricky has always been a good athlete, but you are probably going to have your hands full talking him into playing baseball.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
Ricky put down the saw and took off his gloves as he eyed Jane and the two visitors heading his way.
Johnny held out his hand. “I’m Johnny Dugan, and I think you know Woody.”
Ricky shook hands with both visitors and then took a few steps back, putting his hands in his back pockets. “You down from Denver, sir?”
“No, son,” Johnny said, knowing full well what was on the mind of the young man. “I’m from California. I’m the new baseball coach at the college, and I’m in town for the summer, having just inherited a summer job. I’m with Woody here, doing some recruiting.”
Ricky took a deep breath. “Recruiting for what?”
“For baseball players.”
“Why me?”
“Well, Woody tells me you’re a pretty good athlete, and we need players. We’re putting together a town team to play in the Rocky Mountain League.”
“I’m not interested. There’s too much work to do around here, and I kinda stay clear of town. It seems like I’m always getting myself into trouble when I get away from Green River.”
“Come on, Ricky,” Jane interrupted. “Give Mr. Dugan a chance and hear him out.”
“Ricky, would you mind taking a walk with me?” Johnny said as he motioned with his index finger to a trail that led out to the pasture to the north.
“Okay,” Ricky said, as he dusted off his jeans and led the way down the path.
Jane and Woody remained behind.
It didn’t take Johnny very long to get inside Ricky's head. It was as if he knew exactly what the young man was going through. And in some respects, he saw a lot of Johnny O in the boy. Yes, Johnny remembered now. Sure, the Baltimore Home for Boys wasn’t a prison, but in a lot of ways, Johnny O was confined. His space at nighttime consisted of a cot, a three-drawer dresser, and a curtain separating his space from the boys on each side of him.
As Johnny talked to Ricky, his mind was elsewhere, piecing together his childhood.
Johnny O was told when to get up in the morning, when to go to bed at night, when to eat, when to exercise, and when to do his assigned chores. He was expected to keep his area clean and make his bed a certain way. Say 'yes 'yes 'yes, d ''no', ',s,ir''' to his superiors. The doors were locked at night, and all the electronic gates at both the north and south ends of the property were fastened shut.
No, it was not a prison, Johnny remembered. He recalls walking the streets in the daytime and playing stickball over on Fourth Street with kids who seemed just a little different than his brothers back at the Home. Down deep, Johnny O was sure those strange boys went home to a mom and dad at night.
Johnny relayed the story of Johnny O to Ricky, who listened to every word.
“So, you see, Ricky. I know where you’re coming from.”
“Yes, I guess you do.”
“You know Mr. Dugan, I can hit.”
“Call me, coach,” Johnny said.
*****
Coach Johnny Dugan had accomplished a lot on Day One and he couldn’t wait to get started on Day Two. It was mid-morning and he had heard through the grapevine that the best time to catch Sam Marino was around the noon hour at the Sportsmen’s Club.
Johnny recalls driving by the establishment, but today he would check out the place — up close and personal.
He parked along Main Street and entered the tavern. The lighting wasn’t the best and except for some fellas playing cards in the corner of the room, the bar was empty.
“Could I get you something?” asked the bartender.
“Do you have any iced tea,” Johnny said, noticing a slight off-the-cuff facial expression from the bartender.
“Sure thing, coming right up.”
As the bartender headed for the end of the bar, Johnny asked him, “I’m looking for Sam Marino.”
The bartender turned and pointed to the card table. “You’re in luck. He’s right over there.”
Johnny started to stroll over to the table, suddenly he stopped and eyed the pictures on the wall. The one on the end caught his eye, it was a picture of Dutch and former Baltimore Orioles manager Paul Richards. Suddenly, Johnny was back in Baltimore.
“Johnny O, Mr. Dugan is the hitting coach for the Baltimore Orioles. He would like to talk to you.”
The boy was startled no one ever wanted to talk to him, especially not the hitting coach of the Baltimore Orioles.
“Yes, Mr. Tully. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dugan.”
Johnny touched his face, a tear rolled down his cheek as he continued to eye the photo on the tavern wall.
“Johnny Dugan. Are you Johnny Dugan?” questioned Walter Monroe.
“Yes, I am.” Johnny turned to face two gentlemen, now standing in front of him.
“I’m Walter Monroe, the owner of this beautiful establishment, and standing next to me is Sam Marino. We have been waiting for you. We’ve been on pins and needles, waiting to meet the son of Dutch Dugan.”
Johnny smiled. “Everyone in this town seems to know more about me than I do them. Sorry to break up your card game.”
“That’s okay with us,” said Sam Marino. “You are bringing baseball back to town. The gin rummy game can wait!”
Marino and Coach Dugan headed across the street and walked to the entrance of Rasmussen Stadium. Marino fiddled for the keys to the front gate, opened the lock, and pointed Johnny toward the turnstiles. “Be my guest, Coach Dugan.”
Johnny and Sam entered a walkway that led inside the stadium. Both men sat in a couple of the seats, no more than seventy-five feet behind home plate. Weeds covered home plate and the grass in the outfield was a crusty brown.
“Old man Rasmussen was one of Pearl City’s wealthiest men back in the 1940s, and yes, he was crazy about baseball. Back then the entire county would come to town on a Friday night and watch baseball —men’s games, women’s games, youth ball, and even the oil riggers had a league…whatever John Rasmussen could put together. He’d make it happen, complete with popcorn, hot dogs…and, of course, fireworks. It was the place to be.”
Marino shook his head. “It all ended in ’55 when Rasmussen passed away from a heart attack. The powers-to-be in town kept it going for a while with a little help from the oil companies. Some of the most competitive baseball games I ever saw were right here. It was downright entertaining to watch those oil riggers go at it. But they all left town, the businesses dried up and the stadium has been slowly dying…wilting away ever since.”
“We’re going to do something about that, Sam. There’s a good chance it’ll be lively around here on Friday nights again — say, five or six weeks from now. What do you think, Sam? Can you whip this place into shape?”
“What do I think?” Sam let out a yell, you could hear him all the way to deep center field, three-hundred and forty-nine feet away.
“Sam, I want you to call Mayor Oldham tomorrow, he just may have the funding available for you so you can begin to hire some workers and put this old place back on the map.”
“Johnny, if Mayor Oldham ever retires, you’d be a shoo-in for his job!’
“No, Sam. I’m not into politics. I’m a baseball coach!”
The following Wednesday, Coach Dugan received another surprise. This one, once again, came from Dean Johnson. “Johnny, I’ve got you four signees from Lincoln High over in Ridgeway. Two pitchers, an infielder, and an outfielder—all four led Lincoln to the Class A Championship this spring. They have signed up to go to Pearl in the fall and are willing to commute this summer and play for you.”
Dean Johnson handed Johnny a box loaded with newspaper clippings from Ridgeway. “Take a gander at these when you get back to your office.”
His office!
Johnny had been busy and had yet to step foot in his office at Pearl City College. It was at the very northern end of the gymnasium, a small room with a window, which had a great view of the school’s baseball field.
Johnny parked his car, grabbed all the papers he had accumulated over the past day and a half, fiddled for the key, and stepped into his new pad. “Wow, I won’t be spending a lot of time in here.” A small desk and a couple of chairs, a tall, wooded hat rack, a closet… and on the wall, a picture of the 1951 Pearl City College Pirates.
Coach Dugan sat down, shuffled through his notes, and went to work.
*****
It didn’t take long for the word to spread around to all the residents in Pearl City that baseball was back. Within two days the word had reached as far as the county line to all the ranchers and farmers within a 100-mile radius. Dean Johnson had received a “thumbs up” from Thornton, over in Grand Valley, and schedules for the summer league were popping up in the windows of all the businesses — all over the valley.
Coach Dugan held his first practice on Saturday at the Pearl City College baseball field, but he had his fingers crossed that Sam Marino would come through and open the doors of Rasmussen Stadium by the Fourth of July—the Pearl City Pirates’ first home game against a team called Monroe Heights.
Johnny had made some phone calls on Wednesday and reached the four signees from Ridgeway— all four players were deeply committed and he advised the parents that their boys would be well taken care of, thanks to four upstanding families in the Pearl City community who graciously offered room and board for the out-of-town players when they didn’t feel like commuting.
The Lincoln High School products came as advertised. Johnny was all smiles Saturday morning as he watched Corky Simpson, an infielder, Tank Parker, an outfielder, and two pitchers — lefty Rocky Miller and right-hander Billy Bob Stilwell, warm up their arms, and later during the practice session, he caught a glimpse of their talents as they took turns fielding ground balls and pop-ups.
As for the McPherson brothers, well, their practice in the pasture, among all those cow pies, had fine-tuned their skills, The four had been fielding nothing but bad hops in the pasture — the Pearl City College infield was like a carpet to them, thanks to Jed Stevens.
Booker T was exactly as Boomer had advised. “He plays like a twenty-year-old.” Johnny had received a letter from Thornton on Friday, signing off on the Pearl City Pirates roster. A happy Booker T was all smiles when Johnny gave him the news. “You’re in!”
Bumper, known years ago for his clumsiness, was just the opposite — smooth, agile…and sure of himself. Johnny figured Bumper would not win any races, anytime soon, but he certainly could make the moves over at first base.
As for Boomer McPherson, he had a fastball in the mid-80s and Johnny figured with a little work on his delivery, he’d top ninety miles an hour! Teach him to add a little more bite and take a little speed off his curveball…and he’d be almost un-hittable.
As for Bugs, Johnny figured he had another Yogi Berra in the making. Bugs had been catching Boomer’s pitches for a long time. Handling blazing fastball throws wide of the plate, and throws in the dirt — all the pitches registering eighty miles an hour, or more, is not an easy task, especially when you’re a sixteen-year-old. Johnny shook his head as he watched Bugs throw a perfect throw to second, right on the money, right in the glove of Silky Sullivan.
“Nice throw Bugs!”
As for Silky, he was a “mechanic” all right. Smooth as glass at second base. Johnny just shook his head. On the first day of practice and he was getting some positive vibes.
Five players needed a little fine-tuning, a work-in-progress for sure.
Ricky Hightower came to practice with a good attitude. Johnny wasn’t sure where he’d play him, but Ricky had some muscle, that was for sure. He hit the first pitch on the first day of practice, some three hundred and thirty feet down the left field line.
Lightning Bean Williams was a bit of a surprise. She could run like the wind, no wonder she has a full-ride scholarship to Colorado Tech. As for hitting and fielding, Johnny figured, definitely a work in progress.
And rounding out the Pirates’ roster—the Johnson twins, Dusty and Rusty, and of course, Woody Harrington. The Johnson brothers were big boys, both wore glasses and when they took their cuts at batting practice, well they might connect fifty percent of the time. When they did, they’d hit the ball a long way, especially Dusty, he hit a towering fly ball on his first at-bat at practice to the warning track in left-center field.
Johnny had high hopes for Woody. Teaching him to be another “Chico” was going to be a lot tougher than he had anticipated. But what an attitude the boy had. Johnny glanced at Woody out in right field. He had just run down a fly ball, made the catch, flipped off his glove, and tried to make a solid throw to second—just like his coach had drawn it up.
“That’s better Woody. “Try it again.”
*****
The following morning, Coach Dugan pulled into the parking lot at Rasmussen Stadium. He could hear the workers pounding away, repairing a section of the bleachers along the left field line. Johnny walked through the turnstiles and motioned to Sam, who was busy working on an area of the infield, behind second base.
Sam waved to Johnny, dropped his tools, and headed for the backstop area behind home plate. “It’s coming along, Coach Dugan. I think it’ll be ready for the Fourth of July. By the time you win those two away games…we’ll be ready.”
“Whoa, Sam!” Johnny quickly advised. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Grand Valley and Baxter Hollow right off the bat. We’ll have our hands full. We’ve had just one full practice, we’re pretty green around the edges.”
“I’ve got faith in you, Coach. I’ve got faith in you.”
Sam glanced at his watch. “Hey, the boys at the Sportsmen’s Club are dying to see you. Come on, I’ll buy you a glass of tea.”
The two men crossed the street and entered the sports pub.
“Hey, Johnny. Come join us and sit a spell,” said Clyde, as he pulled up an extra chair, next to the card sharks.
“Give us the scoop,” Walter said. “I bet Boomer McPherson has already put a smile on your face.”
“Yes indeed. We worked on his delivery yesterday. If you think he was fast in ’62. You guys are in for a big surprise.”
“We’re not that surprised,” piped in Nelson Peabody. “Boomer and his brothers are almost legendary around here.”
Walter handed Johnny an envelope.
“Coach Dugan, we saw your schedule. It looks like crafty, old Roy Thornton has set up your season opener at his place and your second game is at Baxter Hollow, not a very friendly place to play. There are some hard-nosed fans down in that neck of the woods. But, the schedule shows four home games at Rasmussen to close out the summer, fans here are going to love that.”
“Now, now. Walter,” Sam said. “It’s gonna be close. We have a long way to go to get the stadium ready.
“You’re going to make it, Sam. If Sam can’t do it. Nobody can!”
Johnny fiddled with the envelope, as the “boys of summer” — as he reverently refers to them, continued to converse.
Clyde added. “I see Garden Grove is not on the schedule. Too far for us to travel I guess. So what does old man Thornton do? He has the Pirates playing his team again…on the final day of the season. Johnny, you’re playing the White Sox, twice.”
“Yeah, Jim Johnson told me to watch out for Thornton.”
“Thornton!” Walter exclaimed. “He’s trying to ensure himself another title.”
“Well, according to the Grand Valley Dispatch,” said Walter, as he pulled the paper out from under the bar. “I get the Sunday paper in the mail every Tuesday. We get the Monroe Heights Marauders on the Fourth of July, the Garland City Ravens a week later, and the Roaring Fork Rock Hounds at the end of the month, probably the most well-funded of all the teams in the league. The Garden Grove Giants, aren’t on our schedule, you are right Clyde…must be a financial situation, too many miles between the two towns.”
Johnny took the check out of the envelope. “What’s this, Walter?”
“All the members in our sports club…and believe me there’s a few more than you see here,” Walter said as he points to Clyde, Norton, and Sam. “We’ve raised some money for the players on the Pearl City Pirates…meal money that is and enough extra money to take care of the motel expenses for the two away games.”
“This is great. The team is going to love this,” Johnny said, as he shook his head in amazement. “You people in Pearl City are just unbelievable.”
“We just want your team to know, just how much we are behind them,” Walter said.
Johnny walked onto Main Street and looked up at the flickering figure inside the electronic sign. The shadowy baseball player, swung once, then twice, and a third time.
A town that loves baseball, Johnny thought to himself. All is well in the world.
*****
Johnny returned to the Harrington House, showered and shaved, and made his way downstairs for dinner.
“Chicken and mashed potatoes tonight,” Anne Harrington said. “Andy picked a nice, ripe tomato out of the garden out back, darn thing is twice the size of a baseball.”
“Sounds good, Anne,” said Johnny, as he then turned his attention to his one-armed ballplayer. “How are you feeling, Andy? You are a little sore. I might have overdone it with those wind sprints.”
“I’m okay, Coach Dugan. My arm is a bit sore, though. Must have thrown a hundred balls to second base and the plate.”
“You’re coming along, Andy. “We need to start on your bunting technique at practice tomorrow.”
“Bunting? How am I going to do that?”
“You may have trouble blasting the ball to the gaps in left or right-center, but before our first game, you’re going to learn to bunt the ball.”
“You think I can do that, coach?”
“I know you can, Andy.”
After one full week of practice, the Pirates were turning into a ball team. Johnny changed things up a bit and held two practices a day — two hours in the morning and two hours in the late afternoon. A little bit of a hardship on the McPherson boys, but Boomer and his father tuned up the old pickup and it was good enough to withstand two trips a day from the Green River farm to Pearl City College.
It was looking more and more like a pitching rotation consisting of three players — Rocky Miller, Billy Bob Stilwell, and, of course, Boomer McPherson. As for Bugs, he could handle anything coming his way.
Bumper McPherson had the edge at first base, Silky Sullivan was a shoo-in at second, Corky Simpson seemed to have all the moves, and was settling in at shortstop. Over at third, a big surprise. Dusty Johnson felt quite comfortable there. He had a good view of home plate, and whatever eyesight problem he had in the past, well it seemed no longer to be an issue.
Dusty’s twin brother, Rusty Johnson had surprising speed and was alternating in center field with Booker T McPherson. Rusty certainly had his hands full with the young Booker T breathing down his neck. Johnny just couldn’t get over the skills of the young McPherson boy. Booker T had grown up with his older brothers and hadn’t missed a lick during their practice sessions in the pasture.
At any rate, Johnny was happy with both players and he figured they’d both be a positive addition to the team.
In left field, Tank Parker had the upper hand. He had a quick first step and he had an eye for the ball after a thirty-minute call earlier in the week to Bill Terry, Parker’s former high school coach at Lincoln High, Johnny was convinced left field was the spot for the young man.
Terry said, “Tank made all-conference up here three years in a row.”
Johnny was happy to hear those comments from Terry. Terry had nothing but praise for all four of his players. “You got the cream of the crop from my team. By the way, Stilwell has a great knuckleball. Try to get him to use it more. He’s kinda reluctant to let it fly.”
Johnny’s three utility players — Ricky Hightower, Lightning Bean Williams, and Woody Harrington have a ways to go before they could move their way into the starting lineup. Still, Johnny was very pleased with the trio. Hightower continues to swat the ball all over the field during batting practice, Williams will be the designated runner and Woody has improved rapidly and just may get a shot at starting a few games in right field — alternating with Rocky Miller and Billy Bob Stilwell, both of them very capable outfielders when they aren’t called upon to pitch.
As for the Pirates’ opponents, Johnny doesn’t have a clue what to expect, but according to the “boys of summer” down at the Sportsmen’s Club, he’d better be prepared for just about anything.
Johnny had already heard about the likes of Mr. Thornton over in Grand Valley and Baxter Hollow has a huge lumber mill and supposedly there are older players on that team.
Monroe Heights and Roaring Fork are well established, as are the Garland City Ravens. Johnny does get one break. The Garden Grove Giants finished runner-up last season and the Pirates will be able to avoid them.
The best winning record takes all the marbles. Johnny closed the door of his office.
The sun was setting as he walked the eight-hundred yards to the baseball field. He cut across the outfield grass and made his way to the pitcher’s mound. He toed the rubber and for a few moments, he stood there and wished Dutch Dugan would emerge from the dugout.
*****
Two weeks had gone by and the Pirates’ season opener was just ten days away. Jim Johnson pulled into the driveway of the Harrington House. He had called Johnny and advised him he would pick him up at 10:00 a.m. Johnson wanted Johnny to tour the city with him and check out the progress on the youth fields and the youth leagues.
Sure enough, Jed Stevens had been busy. The Green River field was coming along and Whipple Park was taking shape as well. “Jed confirmed to me yesterday, he had hired some young men from the Pearl City High football team to lend him a hand.
Johnson and Johnny met Jed at the entrance to Whipple Park. “Nice to see you Dean Johnson and you as well, Coach Dugan. I hear you are whipping the Pirates into shape.”
“Yes, Jed. We’re working hard. Can hardly wait for the opener.”
“How is Sam doing with his crew over at Rasmussen?”
“It’s a pretty tedious job over there, but Sam says he’ll be ready by the first of July.”
“He’s got his hands full at Rasmussen, as for me I’m pretty pleased,” Jed said. “We’ve already got the new dirt in place in the infield over at Green River and we are putting the final touches to the infield at Whipple today. I’d say the kids can begin to play in a few weeks.”
“Outstanding!” Johnson said. “We have enough for two teams in Green River and it looks like maybe as many as four teams here at Whipple.”
“That’s great,” Johnny said. “Chances are there may be some future stars playing at these youth fields this summer. This is where it all begins.”
Johnny and Jim Johnson said goodbye to Jed, let him return to work, and the two men headed over to Rasmussen.
Sam Marino wasn’t hard to find. Sam was pounding out some bent lockers in the visitors’ locker room when the two men walked in.
“It looks like you’re making a lot of progress,” Johnny said, as he eyed half a dozen bent lockers, all turned upside down.
“I’m just working away. Just getting this locker room in order, but I don’t want to make it too comfy in here…after all, this is for our opponents.”
Jim and Johnny smiled. They knew Sam would make the visitors’ quarters as nice as possible, but that was the norm in most stadiums around the country. The home team’s locker room would have all the comforts of home, but not too many bells and whistles for the guests.
Marino put his tools down, “Come on you two. Take a look at the field.”
Johnny was the first to reach the top of the steps. “My goodness, Sam. It looks like Wrigley Field.”
“Thanks, Coach Dugan,” Sam said, smiling from ear to ear. “I haven’t ordered the ivy yet,” Sam said, jokingly.
Johnson took a look at the bleachers down the left field line. “You’ve done some painting.”
“Yeah, the dark green paint on the bleachers matches the outfield fence. Pretty cool, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Sam. You’ve done a great job.”
Johnny and Jim Johnson stopped for lunch at the Pearl City Steakhouse. It didn’t take long for the conversation to lead back to Dutch Dugan.
“I think Dutch would have loved Rasmussen Stadium.”
“You’re right, Jim. He certainly would have.”
Johnny decided at that very moment to come clean with Dean Johnson.
“Jim, I think maybe it’s a good time to tell you some things. It’s time to get a few things off my chest.”
“What’s wrong, Johnny?”
“I’m still feeling some effects from my injury. You know I was in and out of a coma for quite a while. It was a struggle and I’ve come a long way.”
“You sure have, Johnny.”
“I’m still trying to sort out my past and from time to time I get some fuzziness and some headaches. My doctor is Ian Stone and I see him every few months or so, back in San Diego. I’ll probably have to make a couple of trips to San Diego, during the school year, to see him. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“I understand, Johnny. We’ll make arrangements for some personal leave when the time comes.”
“Thank you, Jim. You know, Dr. Stone said this trip would be good for me and should help me sort out my past and he’s right. I remember more and more each day. I can remember yesterday, a year ago, two years ago…don’t get me wrong…but it’s my childhood that remains fuzzy.”
“I understand. I started following your career about a year before your accident. The articles I read about you and Dutch came right out of the Baltimore papers. The papers said Dutch was ill and was forced to retire and leave the Orioles’ staff.
“The papers and the wire services told of Dutch’s son, Johnny Dugan, and told the story of a young man, who was tearing up the minor leagues with a blazing fastball.”
“Unfortunately, Jim. It was the curveball that ended my career.”
*****
Roy Thornton sat at his desk. When the phone rang, he had just handed his secretary some papers to file. “Hello, this is Roy Thornton, what can I do for you?”
“Coach Thornton, this is Willard Smith over at the Grand Valley Dispatch. I’m about five minutes from your insurance office. Any chance I can drop by and do a little interview with you on the summer baseball league. You guys are getting closer and closer to your opener.”
“Sure, come on over. I’ll have my secretary put the coffee on.”
Thornton straightened up the paperwork on his desk and walked over to the corner of his office. He took a cloth and proceeded to dust off five trophies. He stopped to admire them for a moment, treating each piece of hardware like he was reverently viewing his grandchildren.
Thornton’s secretary, a redhead with her hair in a bun and a pencil protruding from one of the many knots strategically located on the back of her head, brought in a coffee pot and two cups. “The reporter is here, Mr. Thornton.”
“Send him in.”
Willard Smith walked through the doorway, takes off his hat, throws it on the hat rack to his left, and proceeded to take a seat in front of Thornton’s desk. “Good to see you again, Roy.”
“Likewise, Willard. So, how can I help you?”
“Understand you have a new team in the league. How on earth did Pearl City manage this?”
“Well, they say Pearl City is becoming a boom town again. I got a call from Jim Johnson, the dean over at the college, and he assures me he’ll have enough players to field a team.”
“I see you play them twice, Roy. What’s up with that?”
“It’s a financial thing. I don’t see how Pearl City can afford three away games. So I decided to make it a little easier on them.”
“Right,” Smith said, as he took a gander at all the trophies in the corner of the office.
“How’s your team coming along, Roy?”
“You know me. I’ve lost some key players. But, I just reload. We should win it again. I picked up three hot shots for the summer out of Denver Central. Great ball players, there’s a couple of college coaches bugging me about them.”
“That’ll probably cost you a pretty penny.”
“Hey, Willard. You know we don’t pull that stuff around here.”
“Right,” Smith said again, as he took one more glance at the trophies.
Thornton handed the reporter a hand full of schedules and a completed roster for his Grand Valley White Sox. The two men said their ‘goodbyes” and the reporter questioned Thornton at the doorway of the office. “Care if I send a photographer to the field tomorrow and get some shots for our Sunday addition?”
“You bet!” Thornton said, as he turned away from the doorway and straightened one of the trophies on the way back to his desk.
*****
Johnny hadn’t had a chance to try his luck at fishing. He wasn’t sure if he still remembered how. The last time he tossed a line into a pond was at least sixteen years ago in Baltimore, but thanks to some prodding from Woody, he was about to get his chance.
“Come on Coach Dugan, take a break this morning,” Woody said. “The fish are jumping down at the pond. I can see them flopping from my bedroom window.”
“Alright Woody, I’ll get my gear and will head down to the pond.”
“I’ve got plenty of worms, Coach! There’s a lot of perch in our pond and they love those squiggly old worms.”
It was a pleasant morning. The birds were chirping away and Johnny could feel the cool morning breeze pass over his shoulder as he flipped his line into the water.
“That a boy, Johnny,” said Dutch Dugan. “That’s the way to get that baby out there.”
“You okay, Coach Dugan?”
Johnny reached for the surface of the water with his left hand and splashed just enough liquid on his face to pull him out of another trance.
“I’m fine, Woody. Are you getting any bites yet?”
“Not yet, coach, not yet.”
Johnny thought back to a foggy morning in Baltimore. Mr. Tully had assured Johnny that Dutch Dugan was on his way. Johnny was so excited. He was going fishing with Dutch. He slept no more than three hours during the night, waking up every hour on the hour, staring out the window as the moon lit up the ceiling…a revolving fan twirling quietly above him.
It was the day Johnny O became Johnny Dugan.
“I’ve been approved, Johnny. The papers are signed. You’re officially a Dugan!”
It was the day Johnny O would start a new adventure. Overnight, Johnny O’s life changed. He left his little space at the Baltimore Home for Boys and went fishing with the new man in his life. He was no longer alone. He had someone that cared.
Johnny O never returned to the Baltimore Home For Boys.
“Coach Dugan, you got a bite!”
Startled, Johnny was back…back at the edge of the pond at the Harrington House. “Yes, indeed, Woody. We’re gonna eat good tonight!” Johnny yanked on the line and it wasn’t a little perch, but a three-pound catfish.
*****
The Pearl City Pirates were in their final week of practice. Practices were getting tougher as Johnny continued to apply the pressure — teaching the fundamentals…and more fundamentals — over and over again.
“Remember Bumper your cut the ball off here,” Coach Dugan said loudly, pointing to an area of the infield between first base and the pitcher’s mound. “I want the right fielders to throw on a line, to the left of Bumper’s chest area. Give him the ball here, so he can continue his movement to the left, turn, and make a crisp throw, on the money, to Bugs at the plate.”
The Pirates listened to every word. They were finding out what Johnny expected out of them. “The fewer mistakes we make, the better chance we have to steal a game or two and we keep ‘em from getting the extra base. You control them, don’t let them control you. We’ll keep doing these drills until we can execute the plays in our sleep!”
Johnny had the team gather around him. “The clock is ticking, just a few days left before we head for Grand Valley. Let’s get these first two games under our belt and play smart in the process. I want you all to know how much this town is behind you. I received an envelope from the “boys of summer” over at the Sportsmen’s Club. Inside the envelope…enough meal money for the first two games and enough money to cover our motel expenses.”
“All right then,” Johnny said. “Let’s get our cuts in. I’ll throw to the pitchers first, and then I want Boomer, Rocky, and Billy Bob to toss about thirty-five pitches…you pitchers mix in a few breaking pitches…and Billy Bob, I want you to crank up that knuckleball now and then.”
Johnny quickly tossed his assortment of pitches and then handed a bucket of balls to Boomer. “Now, Boomer, I want you to bring it up a notch today. You hear?”
“Yes, coach. I read you loud and clear.”
Johnny headed for the dugout, just in time to greet Jim Johnson and Silky’s father, Walker Sullivan.
The two men shook hands with Johnny.
“What brings the two of you out here?”
“We’ve got some keys for you,” Jim said.
“Keys to what?”
“Keys to the bus,” said an elated Walker, pointing to the parking lot. “I just tuned it up and did some work on the brakes. It’s as good as new.”
“We thought we’d let you go to Grand Valley in style,” added Jim.
“Why, thank you!” Johnny said with a big smile.
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