Billy Martin Meets the Pontiff: And Other Baseball Stories

By Jim Morningstar

My ten stories link the American scene and baseball. There are stories about the last African-American major league baseball player before Jackie Robinson, a fiendish umpire, the House of David baseball team, the Unibomber and little league baseball, the Womens All-American Baseball League, Rocky Colavito, Moe Berg and Charlie Finley, the miracle Mets of 1969, Billy Martin and Pope John Paul, and a boy born with the head of a Rooster. Sometimes funny and sometimes just plain strange, BILLYMARTIN MEETS THE PONTIFF will bring a smile to your face.
For more information and description of my book, and how to order, please go to my website: www.angelfire.com/sports/jimmorningstar

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 17, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462818938

Jim Morningstar

Jim Morningstar has a Bachelor of Arts degree in history from Bethel College in Mishawaka, Indiana, and currently resides in South Bend, Indiana.

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Copyright © 2001 by Jim Morningstar.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

JIM CROW AT THE BAT

JIM CROW AT THE BAT

THE UMPIRE FROM HADES

THE UMPIRE FROM HADES

WHISKERS! WHISKERS!

WHISKERS! WHISKERS!

TED KACZYNSKI AND THE LITTLE LEAGUE

TED KACZYNSKI AND THE LITTLE LEAGUE

SKIRT IN THE DIRT

SKIRT IN THE DIRT LEAGUE IN DIRE STRAITS

TRADING ROCKY COLAVITO

TRADING ROCKY COLAVITO POLICE REPORT NO.11235, APRIL 29, I960

TWO MEN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

TWO MEN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

THE FLUSHING MEADOWS DIARIES

THE FLUSHING MEADOWS DIARIES

BILLY MARTIN MEETS THE PONTIFF

BILLY MARTIN MEETS THE PONTIFF

THE ROOSTER BOY

THE ROOSTER BOY

For Lester and Jean Morningstar

JIM CROW AT THE BAT

JIM CROW AT THE BAT

April 14, 1865, Washington City.

It was a splendid day for baseball, so splendid in fact the people attending the game could do so without wearing their overcoats. They gave their full attention to the Washington Nationals’ pitcher, a strapping young lad—who in a quick underhand motion threw a horsehide covered ball forty-five feet to a striker wielding a polished wood stick. The striker let the ball go by; it was caught on the hop by a gnarly handed catcher. Strike three! called out the arbitrator of balls and strikes who was positioned behind the pitcher, but the man with the stick knew he would have one more swing because the rules stated he would be allowed four strikes before being sent to the sidelines.

The pitcher received the ball back; he glanced around the diamond—on every base stood a player from the Harpers Ferry Union Club, and they were only two aces behind. It was a warm Spring day, Good Friday, and the day was getting late. He would have to make a good pitch; his team still needed two aces to reach twenty-one and be declared the winner.

Sweat flew off his cap as he released the ball. The striker, moving up on the pitch, made contact, and the horsehide arched high over third base, in foul territory. No one would be able to catch it on the fly, but the left fielder ran over and nabbed the ball on one bounce with his bare hands. Out! yelled the arbitrator. The pitcher let go a sigh of relief. The Nationals were out of the inning.

Polite applause came from the spectators, many of them women. Picnic quilts circled the playing field. A beverage cart was led around by a colored servant; even the players imbibed between innings. These baseball games were becoming social events in which the blue bloods of Washington could be seen in their well-bred finery.

There were two young men watching the game from the vantage point of a fallen tree trunk. The tree had been a large one before it was knocked down by the vicious storm of ‘63. One of the men, Michael O’Hara, blue of eye, small, fragile looking with long sandy blond hair, pulled out his ornate tobacco box and gave a weak grin to the man sitting next to him. The man sitting next to him was the popular actor, John Wilkes Booth.

You dare not betray us, said Booth under his breath.

You have no reason to fear me, Wilkes.

If you betray our cause, you will be hunted down, there is no where you can hide.

All that you have told me will be forgotten by tomorrow.

But you will not join us? No.

Wilkes Booth leaped off the tree trunk with a somersault. After all, there was an audience here, at the baseball game, and Booth was well known for his acrobatic feats in the theater houses across the south; he felt a need to perform for the crowd. The people ignored him. All eyes were on the burley Nationals’ striker now up with men on second and third.

You will be leaving shortly, said O’Hara.

I’m sorry I will not witness the end of the game, answered Booth.

Perhaps later, I can give you the final score.

"If I am successful this evening, and you can find me, perhaps yes.

The Nationals’ striker swung and missed the next pitch, striking out. A groan went up among the spectators. Booth turned to leave, but he stopped and faced Michael O’Hara.

This baseball, it reminds me of the theater—there is joy, and there is agony.

John Wilkes Booth mounted his horse. Ford’s Theater was two miles away.

*   *   *

Why must we always be late?

Mary Todd Lincoln paced in front of the President feeling quite surly. Not even the frilly pink bonnet and the low-necked cream-colored dress she was wearing could sooth the displeasure she felt for her husband.

Honestly Mr. Lincoln, have we ever seen the curtain go up? Just once … just once I would like to arrive in time to see the entire opening act.

Abe Lincoln sat slumped in his chair, his favorite one, the rocker with the soft padded seat and the hard back. His mind was no where near the theater. He was again the President of the combined United States, thank God, and there would be no more division, no more war. The nation was kept together through his refusal to buckle under pressure—it would have been easy to let the South drift away. But to his everlasting credit, he did not allow that to happen. Consequently, he felt something that often eluded him—happiness.

Mr. Lincoln, did you hear me?

Yes my dear, quite clearly.

Mrs. Lincoln left the room in a huff. The President stood up slowly, the aches and pains were with him again. No matter, he promised his wife an evening at the theater. It was the kind of promise he would never break. He ducked under the archway of his office door, limping slightly as he headed down the hallway.

The play Mary Todd Lincoln was so bent on seeing was Our American Cousin, a light comedy featuring the final Washington performance of the wonderful Laura Keene. Miss Keene was charming alright, but comedy didn’t suit Abe Lincoln; most of the time it bored him. Once there, maybe he could grab forty winks, and no one would be the wiser.

He joined the First Lady on the front porch, a new addition to the White House. It would certainly be welcome come the sultry July evenings ahead. He watched Andy, the Negro footman, help Mrs. Lincoln step into the fine black coach, and was about to step in himself when a hand grabbed his shoulder. Startled, he turned around to recognize the Speaker of the House, Schuyler Colfax.

Mr. President, can I have a word with you?

Mary Todd Lincoln gave her husband a look of disgust. She knew her husband well; he would exchange words with the Speaker. They would be late again.

The President looked at his wife, then the Speaker, then his wife again. His eyes, always so sad, seemed even sadder.

My dear, the affairs of state beckon, you know I cannot refuse. Go to the theater without me, I will join you shortly.

If I must, hissed Mrs. Lincoln. The coachman tapped the horses with his whip. The Speaker and Mr. Lincoln were left alone on the porch.

I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. President, said Schuyler Colfax, his face becoming pale. Mrs. Lincoln seemed rather upset. I certainly didn’t want to cause any grief.

Oh don’t be concerned about Mother, said Mr. Lincoln. She has her heart set on seeing a play this evening. This war—there has been so much bloodshed and suffering, Mrs. Lincoln’s nerves are rather out of sorts.

Understandingly sir. Give her my regards when you meet her later.

Thank you Mr. Speaker, I shall.

Mr. President, I won’t keep you long. I have just talked with General Grant, and he believes we can begin to reduce the national debt by cutting the expenditures of the army and navy. Hopefully, this will bring our paper money close to the gold standard. At least General Grant thinks it will.

Yes, that makes a lot of sense. I will discuss this matter with the General. He and his lovely wife will be my guests at the play …

Excuse my interruption sir, but General Grant has instructed me to tell you that he will not be able to attend this evening’s performance. He offers his apologies, but he has pressing business out of town.

Mr. Lincoln slowly shook his head.

General Grant works much too hard. How about you, Mr. Speaker, will join us?

I must beg off, sir, but I would hope that you would give me the privilege of seeing that you get to the theater in good time. My hansom is at your use, if you don’t mind my company.

I would be delighted, Mr. Colfax.

The President settled back in the hansom. Schuyler Colfax placed a foot on the first rung, and nodded to the driver. The horses pranced forward; stones and gravel flew out as the two-wheeled vehicle struggled down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Due to the jostling of the ride, there was a thump as Schuyler Colfax sat down on the small seating area. He moved his ample girth around, trying to find comfort, impossible in the hansom cab’s tight quarters.

If it would not be too much of a bother, Mr. President, I would like to make one stop—at the ball grounds to retrieve my son.

Yes, of course, Mr. Colfax. Think nothing of it.

Thank-you, said the Speaker. Young Schuyler has come to be quite a rooter of the game of baseball. I always know where to find that boy when the Nationals are having a home contest.

Within ten minutes the hansom arrived at the ball field. Neither man got out of the rig; they could clearly view the yard from their seated positions.

Mr. Lincoln frowned. This baseball, Mr. Colfax, do you know anything about it?

Very little, sir. I have learned from my son that whichever team reaches twenty-one aces first wins the battle—excuse me sir, the war is still on my mind—wins the match.

Just then a striker for the Union Club hit a ball that a Nationals’ mid-fielder caught over second base.

The wooden stick and the ball, mused the President, it reminds me of a game I played as a youth in Springfield—it was called rounders as I recall. The whole town would play, or at least the men folk. We would gather in the town square, which was quite open in those days. A man with a club would hit a circular sewed up object, usually horsehide or cowhide stuffed tightly with rags, into a crowd of men and boys. We would all try to catch it, on the fly or bounce.

And here a smile tugged at his bearded lips.

I’ll never forget the exhilarating feeling of making contact with that sphere; I was quite a good striker in my younger days. It was a feeling of accomplishment that I have not felt since, not even when I was elected to high office.

A handsome youth of about twenty-one, with a mustache and a overlay of brown hair, moved toward the hansom from behind the horses.

Robert! called out the President.

Father, what are you doing here?

Mr. Colfax, I would like to introduce you to my son. He told Mother and me this morning that he would not be able to spend the evening with us. Now I see why.

Robert Lincoln shook hands with the Speaker.

It’s good to meet you, sir. I have read of your exploits in the congress from the letters my father has sent me.

Robert has been on General Grant’s personal staff, and he is just back from Appomattox Court House, the President quickly added.

One of our fine brave boys, said the Speaker. So tell me young man, do you hold this baseball diversion in high regard?

"Most definitely, Mr. Colfax. I first saw the game played when

I was a student at Harvard College. In the war just past our soldiers often played ball in times of inactivity. I never hesitated to join them when I could. The game involves physical activity that seems to bring people together. I believe in future years baseball may become our national pastime."

Shooting, said Mr. Colfax, "is and always will be our national

"

pastime."

The men spent several minutes intently watching the game. With the score evened by the Union Club, it would soon be too dark to play.

Schuyler Colfax peered into the twilight. Ah, there is my son. I will fetch him at once, Mr. President, and we will be on our way. You will be quite tardy as it is.

No, said Mr. Lincoln, a smile creasing his thin lips, leave your son at peace; it is already too late for my appearance at the theater. I will go back to the White House with Robert. Besides, I sense a Nationals’ victory, and quite frankly, I want to stay and see it happen.

*   *   *

The sky was turning red as John Wilkes Booth trotted his horse up Tenth Street. He stopped in front of Ford’s Theater, wiped his chin with a fine silk handkerchief, and fixed his eyes on the playbill. Future performances were listed. One that grabbed his attention was Shakespeare’s, Julius Caesar. It would have a run of twelve nights only, a limited engagement.

Tonight I shall play Brutus to Lincoln’s Caesar, he said softly.

And thus always to tyrants! he said a little louder.

At a hitch rail behind the theater, next to the back door, Booth tethered his horse, and checked to make sure his expensive brass derringer was in good working order. He walked down an alley three blocks, then made his way back on the cobbled street. Good natured singing was coming from the many taverns he passed.

Washingtonians were in a good cheer; the war was over and with it the Spring season spread freshness over the whole city. Taltavul’s, adjoining Ford’s, was a favorite watering hole and eatery with the actors and theater patrons alike, and here Booth paused to down a couple of whiskeys. Not his usual brandy, not this time.

John Wilkes Booth, do me the honor, sir, of buying you a drink, said a man in the uniform of the Washington Capital Police.

Booth bowed to his admirer and looked at his pocket watch, all in the same movement.

Captain Thomas, sir, I must regretfully decline. Miss Keene will be on stage soon and I must appraise her abilities; she asked me to do so.

Exiting Taltavul’s took a little doing, with about a dozen mustered out military men pushing their way in, but Booth made it to the outside with the patience of a man who devotes many hours to studying scripts. He casually passed through the main entrance of Ford’s Theater. The ticket taker held out his hand, but on recognizing the famous Mr. Booth, he laughed and waved him in. Compliments of Mr. Ford, he said.

The full length window in the small but elegant lobby easily reflected the actor’s handsome image. Brooding eyes, black as coal, looked back at a not too tall man with black hair and a carefully scrubbed mustache. His fitted jacket was scented with Rosewood toilet water. He must look and smell his best. After this night, he would be the most famous man in America.

There was determination in his gait as he bounded up the carpeted staircase to his right, which led to the narrow passageway behind the President’s box. Booth paused for a moment, to calm down, before looking through a crack in the white door. All he could see was the back of a quilted rocker. Two army officers walked by, offering him no resistance. He realized, to his relief, no one would give him trouble; there would be no challenge to his bold deed.

The derringer felt cold in his hand. He turned the knob and the door swung open. His heart was pounding. An actor onstage happily recited a soliloquy about turning someone inside out. There was loud laughter from the audience. It would have to be now. Just squeeze the trigger.

He heard a woman’s shrill voice. It’s about time you got here. You missed Laura Keene … say, you’re not Father!

Wilkes Booth stared at a puzzled Mary Todd Lincoln. Sitting with her was a pretty young woman and a man attired in the dress blues of the military. But Mary’s husband, the President, was not there. The rocking chair he should have been sitting in was empty, the warming quilt undisturbed. Booth slipped the derringer up the sleeve of his coat.

No ma’am, I’m not. My apologies, I … I somehow slipped into the wrong box.

The First Lady’s heavy face was flushing pink.

Oh that Mr. Lincoln, wait until I see him at home—not showing up—he’ll sleep in the parlor tonight—I can assure you of that young man!

Yes Madam President. Wilkes Booth back-pedaled out of the presidential box. He fled down the staircase and reached the cobblestones before the audience’s laughter could subside. During his somber walk back to his horse, he thought, What went wrong?

April 14, 1884, Toledo, Ohio

Spring was slow in coming, so this was the kind of morning those living along Lake Erie dream about throughout their cruel winters: shining sun, balmy breezes, everything turning green. It would be perfect weather to be siting in a ballpark. Later that day the Toledo Baseball Club, also known as the Blues, or Blue Stockings, would conduct their home opener, their first game as a member of the major league American Association.

The press conference was due to begin at nine o’clock sharp. Louis Ferrar, the baseball scribe for the Toledo Blade, had arrived early to situate himself as close as possible to the speaker’s podium. Other reporters were filing into the elegant ballroom of the

Biltmore Hotel, and like the portly Ferrar, they were all dressed in tweed suits and bowler hats. There was very little chit-chat among themselves, rather, they were all looking around, waiting for the brand-new owner of the Baseball Club to arrive. They would have a lot of questions.

These press conferences never started on time, and since there would be a wait, Ferrar had a seat on the edge of the podium. He sat stone-jawed, thinking about