That One Pitch

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The author’s father is in the top row, to the right of the man in the hat

The scoreboard was behind the left centerfield fence. One of the locals would operate it for a bucket of beer. The scoreboard wasn’t always accurate.

All of the teams had good fan support. A thousand people lined the fences to watch their boys from the mines go against the bullies from Victoria. The games were a festive occasion, as the fans would come right from church dressed in their finest.

The games started at 1 p.m. on Sunday. During the season the Catholics, Methodists, Lutherans, and Quakers had special 10 a.m. services to accommodate the games. They tried to hold to their regular scheduled services at noon, but the pews were so sparsely filled that they all got together and adjusted.

Mid-September, the shadows were long. It had been a cool Indian summer, and today there was a chill in the air, causing blood to circulate just below the surface of the skin, giving people a healthy, ruddy glow. The whitecaps sprayed in Nanaimo Harbor, as soon as the season was to end.

Dad’s ma had passed that spring, but on game day, personal problems were set aside. And even though the gloom of winter was fast approaching, the game was about to be played. Excitement buzzed throughout the town, lifting spirits and giving eternal hope.

September 13, 1919. Long, skinny earthworms stretched their purplish bodies, hurrying to cross the lane away from the ballpark, seemingly sensing the traffic that would soon be coming.

At noon the bleachers were filled, and fans stretched down both the right-field and left-field fences, as both teams began their pregame batting and fielding warm-ups.

“The Vipers weren’t hung over,” my father said. “They were still drunk. When they got to the field, along with being loud and obnoxious, they were red-eyed, and smelling of rye whiskey. Nanaimo people booed them soundly. And the Vipers gave it right back.

“Jimmy Dolan, who was pitching, was so nervous that he threw up several times while warming up. I was nervous, too. I chewed my tobacco so quick and hard that my jaws hurt.”

At 12:30 the winds picked up to about fifteen knots, blowing straight out to right field, bringing along some white, puffy cloud cover.

The umpires, dressed in blue, arrived at home plate and were given the lineups. They were paid a dollar each game by the league, and though intimidated by Adolph Bronco, they were still pretty fair.

The Miners took the field. Their white flannel uniforms sparkled. The Chinaman at Hop’s laundry always did a good job of cleaning the uniforms. They boiled them with Fels-Naphtha while adding bluing. Nanaimo was printed in black, block letters across their chest, and their caps had two, half-inch black bands around the crown. The shirts had collars and were baggy like their pants. The black socks blended into the black-cleated shoes.

Twisting a thick handlebar mustache, the Miners coach, Oswald Mackey, sat pompously in the first position on the bench, smoking a long, black cigar. He was dressed in a dark blue, pinstriped, three-piece wool suit while a black derby sat atilt on his bald head.

Seven bats leaned against the chicken wire. Sticky, black-cloth electricians tape wrapped the handles of four bats, protecting the batter from ripping his hand on the screws which held the cracked bat handles together. The Nanaimo Mine Association didn’t spend much money on the team. Each year the team got seven bats for the entire season.

“Our gloves were measly scraps of leather covering our fingers,” my father said. “A one-inch strap between the thumb and index finger was all we had for the web.”

The plate umpire called “play ball,” and the first Viper batter, Clem Jensen, the left fielder, stepped into the batter’s box. Clem, a local boy from Nanaimo who had defected, was greeted with a loud chorus of boos. He kept his eyes on the plate dug his back foot into the rear of the batter’s box and tugged on the bill of his cap.

The infielders were on their toes, gloves on the ground, ready to break in either direction.

Jimmy looked to the catcher for his signal. One finger down, a fastball. Jimmy went into an exaggerated windup, flung the ball right down the middle of the plate. “Strike one!”

The infielders relaxed as the chatter started: “Way to fire, Jimmy.”

“Throw him the same thing,” Whitehead hollered from left field.

My dad’s eyes were smiling as he continued the story: “The crowd roared.”

Jimmy watched for his signal again. Two fingers down, a curveball away. Jimmy wound
up and fired, his index and middle fingers snapped in a downward motion, his wrist breaking toward the ground. The ball slid off the fingers, its rotation a three-quarter downward spin. The seams caught the air, and the ball dove over the outside corner. Jensen swung weakly, grounding harmlessly to Jones at third, who fielded it cleanly and whipped it across to Thomas at first.

“Yerr out!” cried the ump.

“The crowd was frenzied,” my dad said. “Excitement ran straight through them and came right to us. I could feel this was going to be a different day.”

While Jensen, head down, walked back to the dugout amid a round of boos and catcalls, the infielders picked up stones and pebbles from the ground around them and tossed them out beyond the foul lines, hoping to prevent some bad hops.

The next two batters were easy outs. Jimmy came back to the dugout after the half inning, feeling it. Everyone slapped his back and hollered encouraging things.

“You got it,” said Myron Dey.

The Miners didn’t score in their half of the inning. The game went on for four innings without anyone scoring.

The Viper pitcher was a hard throwing, long-armed Welshman named Nick Dragon. The Vipers called him the Flame-Throwing Dragon, but the rest of the league called him Nick the Prick.

“In the bottom of the fifth, with one out and Thomas on third, I hit a sacrifice fly to center, deep enough to score Thomas. After five innings, the score was one to nothing, Miners.”

In the Miners’ half of the seventh inning, Flores lead off with a perfectly placed bunt for a base hit. Myron Dey was up next. He took two pitches then punched the next pitch to the right side. The Viper second baseman picked it up and fired it to the shortstop, Cromwell, who was covering second, but instead of stepping on second base and forcing Flores, Cromwell shifted the ball from his glove to his bare hand and waited in front of the bag for Flores to arrive. Unaware of Cromwell’s intentions, the fleet-footed Flores began a beautiful fade away slide, trying to avoid the tag he knew was coming.

Like a boxer, Cromwell shifted his weight from his back foot to his front, and with all of his momentum going forward, he hit Marcy below the left temple, shattering his cheekbone and knocking him unconscious.

Players from each bench rushed the field. Marcy’s fragile body lay in a heap at the feet of a tall, standing Cromwell. With long arms hanging loosely at his side, Cromwell dropped his glove to the ground, doubled his fists, and sneered, waiting for anyone to reach him.

Dey lowered his head and plowed into Cromwell, laying him flat on his back. A near riot ensued as the umpires and constables had to restrain the crowd.

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