Note from the author: Back in the 1940s and 1950s, amateur baseball was played, for example, in small towns in Ohio, Nebraska (team shown above), Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Kansas. Teams would hit the road and play in hostile conditions. Of course, the story below is fiction, and the characters come strictly from my imagination. If you still love baseball like I do, then you may get a kick out of the story below. Happy reading! -- D.H. Price
The slender right-hander took a deep breath, looked over his shoulder, and eyed the scoreboard. He had accomplished what he had set out to do, and exactly what his manager had wanted him to do.
He had held the Giants scoreless for 4 2/3 innings. He had fanned four batters and walked only two. He was one pitch away from securing a roster spot with the Los Angeles Dodgers.
It was the final spring training game. Johnny and the Dodgers held a 4-0 lead over the San Francisco Giants. Johnny had two strikes on cleanup hitter Willie Robinson — a six-foot, five-inch, 250-pound giant. Robinson looked like he could turn the 42-inch Louisville Slugger he held in his hands into sawdust — if he had a mind to.
Johnny fiddled with the brim of his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He stepped off the rubber. Dutch would have been proud of him. How many times had he heard Dutch give him that much-needed vote of confidence and say, “Johnny, you are going to wake up one day and find yourself on the mound in a major league game. You have the tools, son. It’s just a matter of time.”
Johnny looked behind home plate. He took a glance at the crowd. He could see the Dodger fans clapping their hands, all of them pulling for him to get that last strikeout.
Dutch was not there. Johnny had become accustomed to that, but still, he always looked. Johnny always felt Dutch’s presence — and that was all the support he needed. It would be his last inning of work. The Dodgers' relief pitcher, Walker Hudson, was throwing hard in the bullpen.
He decided to forgo the fastball and try to sneak a curveball by Robinson. Johnny hid the ball in his glove, stepped back on the rubber, and went into his wind-up.
The ball was on its way.
Robinson had guessed right. He was looking for a breaking ball, and that is exactly what he got. The ball broke, but not quite enough, and Robinson connected, sending a blistering line drive right back to the mound.
Johnny Dugan saw the seams of the ball, then darkness.
Chapter 1
Three years later….
Johnny Dugan had his life back. Unfortunately, he was twenty-six years old, and he was starting all over again. To him, it seemed like the world had passed him by.
The 1968 Major League Baseball season had come and gone. The Detroit Tigers won the World Series, knocking off the St. Louis Cardinals behind pitcher Mickey Lolich, who pitched game seven on two days’ rest and beat the Cardinals’ top pitcher Bob Gibson. Pete Rose won the National League batting title with a .335 average, and Denny McClain won 31 games for the Tigers. Frank Howard hit 44 home runs for the Washington Senators, the most in the majors.
Johnny had missed it all.
Sure, the doctors and the nurses had filled in the blanks. He was slowly putting it all back together, but it was a giant puzzle at times, and he was still searching for parts of his past. It was like a black hole at times and darkness: plenty of darkness.
Johnny was sure of one thing. He was now driving down a Colorado highway, heading for Pearl City.
It was late April, and snow still covered the ground. He reached over and pushed the lever that would eventually heat the inside of his Ford Falcon.
Johnny thought out loud, What was I thinking? He turned on the windshield wipers as the icy raindrops suddenly covered the window, making it almost impossible to see the lonely stretch of highway that lay ahead.
He quickly turned the dial on the console to defrost and then rubbed the inside of the now foggy window with a cloth he had pulled out of the glove compartment.
A week ago, he was walking on the beach at Coronado Island, mulling over the recent decision he had made to accept a job as a baseball coach at Pearl City College. Apparently, there were no other applicants, and the position was his for the taking.
Pearl City was a college town, located two hundred miles west of Denver and just four miles south of the Colorado River. Pearl City certainly had its ups and downs, its economy hinging on a whole student body at the college and the ability of the oil companies to stay in the area — drilling in the nearby mountains for hard shale — a dark, fine-grained rock, which would then be processed and turned into a marketable synthetic fuel.
The drillers were back.
It wasn’t a boom town yet, but at least enough businesses were returning — including a couple of well-known oil companies — and it looked like they were in town for good this time.
Johnny didn’t have a clue about synthetic fuel, but he’d learn. Luckily, he wouldn’t be teaching a class on the environment. He had a teaching degree, and his specialty was English 101, or a course closely resembling it.
As for baseball, Johnny knew a lot about the game. There were moments when he wasn’t sure, why?
A few miles to the east…
It was one of those crazy days when the weather was having a hard time deciding what it wanted to do. It had rained heavily during the early morning hours, but by midday, the rain had turned to snow. By the afternoon, rays of sunlight had found their way through the remaining clouds, and a beautiful rainbow had arched its way across the farmland, just east of the small town of Green River.
The air was crisp and clean. It was one of those special moments when the residents had a golden opportunity to step outside, look toward the tops of the mountains to the west, and take in a deep breath, hoping that single breath of fresh air would last forever.
The chugging, rhythmic sound of a freight train echoed across the valley and slowly made its way north, down a lonely and seemingly forever stretch of track. Convoys of fast-moving 18-wheelers — carrying important cargo east to the big cities of Chicago and New York, and the west, to Salt Lake City and San Francisco — rolled on down the highway, leaving in its wake, nothing more than a cluster of powerful, swirling gusts of wind, causing the roofs of the older buildings along the highway to vibrate.
The dirt roads, leading in and out of Green River, were void of dust as the early-morning rain had washed away the ground, allowing the surface of the streets to turn from a normal, crusty brown to a smooth, reddish hue.
The yellow school bus rolled to a stop at the intersection of McPherson Ranch Road and County Highway 55. The bus driver, Ollie Richardson, placed his foot on the brake pedal, eased over to the side of the road, and stopped.
Ollie pulled back the release lever, and the sliding door of the bus opened. He lowered his head and peeked through the windshield. The snow had stopped. The sun was out for the first time all day. It was about time. After all, it was the last Friday in April, Ollie thought to himself, “enough already.”
“Okay, boys,” the driver said. “This is your stop, and it looks like the snow showers are over. You guys can high-tail it home from here.”
Three of the four boys ran down the aisle and scampered off the bus. The older boy and tallest by far stopped at the front of the bus, patted the driver on his shoulder, and said, “Thanks, Ollie. We’ll see you next week.”
“Say, Boomer. One more week and you’ll be a high school graduate.”
“I know, Ollie.” Boomer acknowledged. “I’m glad it’s over. I’m not going very far. I heard a rumor Pearl City College might reinstate the baseball program next spring. Of course, that’s a year away, and I’m not holding my breath. I guess I’ll hang around the farm and help my dad.”
“I guess so,” the bus driver said. “I know how much you miss playing baseball. What has it been now, seven years without any baseball in Pearl City?”
“Yeah, that’s about right. Everybody moved away. No work…nothing to keep ‘em here. They're starting to come back, and more and more are moving in every day. Maybe a change is coming. I sure hope so. The Green River baseball field is covered with overgrown weeds. You can’t even find home plate. Over in Pearl City, the old Rasmussen Stadium has gone to pot.”
“That’s too bad. You and your brothers are such great ballplayers. Rasmussen used to be a rocking place. A lot of history there. The stadium is going to waste. It’s a rotten shame.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Boomer said, as he watched his younger brother's head down the rural dirt road.
“Well, goodbye, Ollie. Say hello to Ellie for me.”
“Yes, I’d better hurry home. She’s got a pot roast in the oven,” the bus driver said, as he closed the door, hit the accelerator, and headed back down the highway.
Boomer McPherson threw his books over his shoulder and, with his giant strides, caught up with his brothers in no time at all.
“Wait up, guys!” Boomer said. “The sky is clearing. It’ll be a nice walk home.”
The McPherson brothers were used to the half-mile trek to the house. Some days were better than others. Boomer looked up at the sky. The dark clouds were heading west. He was sure winter was finally over, and he was glad of that.
“Wait up,” an annoyed Boomer said. He stopped to pick up the mail and the Pearl City Weekly Gazette — the paper housed in the black cylinder container, next to the mailbox.
Boomer was the oldest of the McPherson brothers. When he was twelve years old, rumors floated around that he was blessed with the best arm in the region. There were even some people who swore he could throw a fastball over eighty-five miles an hour.
“Nah,” his brother Bugs would say, “eighty-one, eighty-two…tops.”
Bugs should know. He had spent many a night re-stringing his mitt after a pitch-and-catch session with his older brother. Boomer, at six feet, two inches tall, and just a few months shy of his nineteenth birthday, was a physical specimen.
“It’s from all those years of bailing hay,” Bugs would say, jokingly.
All the brothers were physically fit. Bumper McPherson, the second-oldest at seventeen, had even shed a few pounds over the last couple of years, and he could no longer be called chubby by even his closest buddies. “He is solid,” Boomer would say when referring to Bump.
Bugs and Booker T are the youngest of the McPherson clan. Bugs is sixteen, and Booker T is the baby in the group at fifteen.
The McPherson brothers continued their stroll home. They could see the farmhouse in the distance; it was the only home they’d ever known. They knew every inch of the forty acres. They fished there, hunted there, and even played baseball there.
In fact, they were born in that place.
The McPherson’s family doctor, Rufus Smith, made the three-mile drive from his small Green River health center office each time he'd get an emergency call. No frills for Gladys McPherson. When it was time for another McPherson to enter the world, there was no time to hop in the family jalopy and head for the hospital in Pearl City.
Boomer and his brothers disturbed a family of quail, which were nestled in the bushes. “I count six of them,” Booker T said, as the birds flew north and disappeared over the top of McPherson’s red barn.
Boomer thought living out in the country and growing up in the middle of nowhere had its good points and bad points. It was a rough life on the farm. Up early all the time, plenty of chores to do before heading off to school, and the long, bumpy ride on the bus into Pearl City.
His father, Joel McPherson, had spent thirty years making a go of it physically and financially, but he had succeeded. They had clothes on their back, a roof over their head, and food in their belly.
His father was a good, hard-working man, and his mom, well, was the best mother in the world.
Boomer recalled what a kick his parents got out of watching the four of them play for the Little League District Title. They stopped everything and headed south to the southern part of Colorado and the town of Johnsonville — a good three-hour drive.
Boomer, Bumper, Bugs, and Booker T were the best players on the Green River Little League team in 1962, back when the businesses were flourishing in Pearl City. The small town of Green River, with a population of five hundred, is considered an eastern extension of Pearl City — a farming community comprised mostly of hardworking people, with one goal in mind: to work their small piece of land and improve their lot in life.
The four McPherson boys were known as the Rat Pack.
Boomer and the Green River Rats eventually lost in the District Finals, and as it turned out, it would be the last baseball game for the local athletes, high school, college, or otherwise. The town took a tumble the following winter as the oil companies stopped drilling and left, leaving the residents of Green River and Pearl City to fend for themselves.
Pearl City took the biggest hit. Family after family packed up their belongings, sold what property they owned, and headed for the big cities of Denver and Salt Lake City, in search of good-paying jobs.
Boomer still had high hopes for next spring. The oil rig workers were back in full force, and many of them were bringing their families with them. John Deere was opening a new facility next month, located about halfway between Pearl City and the remaining city limits of Green River. Boomer recalls his father’s recent comment at the dinner table as he tossed the Pearl City Gazette into the trash can. “I’ll believe it when I see it. It’s all politics.”
But for now, there was work to do on the farm. The Rat Pack had some horses to feed before dinner.
*****
Pearl City College Dean of Admissions, Jim Johnson, had clued Johnny in on the town’s recent population explosion and had convinced him to make the move.
“It’ll be a good fit for you. If you get through next winter, that is.” Johnson had said, jokingly. “You just might be able to make use of those baseball talents you said you have, come next spring.”
Johnny felt it was time to make a decision. He certainly wasn’t getting any younger. He had lost too many years of his life already. What worried him the most were the headaches. The doctors said the pills would help, and in time, the headaches would subside.
Jim Johnson wasn’t aware of any of that, but it wasn’t necessary that he had to know. Johnny figured Johnson was in dire need of an English teacher and maybe a baseball coach, and besides, he had forwarded his medical clearance along with a copy of his teaching certificate. He had all the bases covered.
The fact that he had only forty percent vision in his right eye shouldn’t be an issue. There’s bound to be a one-eyed English teacher somewhere in the world.
The rain had stopped. Johnny could see patches of blue sky amongst the fast-moving white clouds. He glanced at the green highway sign. Pearl City, 5 miles.
As he rolled on down the highway, Johnny thought back to his last day in the hospital. The blonde nurse was smiling as she helped her patient into the wheelchair. “Johnny, I guess we’re finally getting rid of you,” she said, as she wiped away a tear, which had started to trickle down her left cheek.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” Johnny said as he maneuvered his way into the wheelchair. “It seems like we just met.”
“No, Johnny!” Rebecca Stallworth said as she kissed him on his cheek. “It was six months ago, today!”
Johnny saw the Pearl City exit sign up ahead. He turned on the blinkers and edged over to the right lane. He took the off-ramp and sped up over a hill and came to a stop at the first signal light.
He looked both ways. It was Friday afternoon, yet there were very few cars on the street. He turned right and pulled into a small parking lot. There was a grocery store next to the lot and a fifteen-room motel across the street. A vacancy sign was taped to the office window. A coffee shop was just to the right of the motel.
He got out of his car, stretched, and headed for the coffee shop.
The waitress, Thelma Jones, saw the stranger enter her coffee house. Thelma not only waited on tables, but she was also the co-owner.
Along with her husband, Eldon, they were known for serving the best coffee in the area, and despite the town of Pearl City’s ongoing problem — to remain on the map as an on-again-off-again bustling metropolis, their business was always able to hang in there.
Of course, if there were a stranger in town, Thelma would want to know about it. The gentleman who had just walked through the door was a stranger. He was tall, dark, and handsome. He wore a white polo shirt, a pair of blue denim jeans, and a pullover sweatshirt with a hood. As for footwear, he sported a light-colored pair of tennis shoes.
To top it off, he looked like a man with many questions. Thelma was good with details; she didn't miss much.
“Can I help you?”
“I’ll take a cup of coffee and a piece of that homemade apple pie,” Johnny said, as he pointed to the display tray on the counter.
“Coming right up,” Thelma said. “You passing through, or are you one of those oil riggers moving in?”
Thelma was surprised at herself. She thought the stranger might be the one full of questions, yet here she is doing all the asking.
“No!” the stranger said. “I can’t even change the oil on my car without messing it up. I’m a teacher. I’m taking a position over at the college this fall. Thought I would come up and check out the town, and maybe do some fishing.”
“What do you teach?” questioned Thelma.
“I’m an English teacher and a baseball coach.”
“Well, that’s good news. We’re happy to have you.” Thelma said. “I have two granddaughters who are in their second year at Pearl, and I heard through the grapevine that Dean Johnson was hiring again. As for baseball, we haven’t had a game of baseball played around here for a good seven years.”
“That’s kind of sad,” Johnny said. “A town without baseball. Now, that’s a real shame.”
“Maybe, you can do something about that.”
“Maybe I can,” Johnny said. “Maybe I can."
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