When the Cheering Stops

By Ray Wenck

He had everything. Money. Stardom. Great friends. A World Series Championship. Then a traumatic death occurred and his world collapsed.

Walter Starr was a star. He had a record-setting eight-year run as a pitcher in the majors and was at his peak when his best friend and all-star catcher Marty Dawson died. For good reason, Walter blames himself for the death and punishes himself by leaving the game he loves.

 

For the next eight years, he wanders the country staying in small towns until someone recognizes him then he moves on. The guilt he carries is too heavy a burden to think about doing anything else with his life and he wants to avoid discovery by the press and others who see his running as a sign of guilt.

 

When Walter stops in the small rural town of Morseton, he is drawn to a broken-down, unkempt baseball diamond. The sight both sparks memories of his youth and saddens him for the field's condition. Unable to understand how anyone could allow the field to fall into such disrepair, he sets out to find out why. His discovery leads him to a mysterious land deal, a strange grudge between two towns, and a two-year-old murder.

 

Now, deep into the town's conflict, Walter begins to piece together a puzzle that sets unknown forces against him. Now, a target, Walter must decide what is so important about the events in Morseton that is worth losing his life over. With forces closing in on all sides, he must choose, run again as he has always done, or stand and fight and risk his own discovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Wenck
• Release date: May 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223005902

Ray Wenck

Ray Wenck was an elementary school teacher for 35 years. He owned and operated an Italian restaurant for 25 of those years. When not writing his hobbies include baseball, cooking and playing the harmonica.

Book preview

Dedication

This story is dedicated to all the coaches who took the time to work with me and encourage me along the way, as well as the many great players I proudly called teammates.

Author’s Notes

If you’ve read some of my other stories, it’s no secret I’m a baseball fan. Though the game has changed over the years, I still find a childlike joy in watching a game.

My father liked baseball but never played much; from the Bronx, he played stickball, but never played on an organized team. Still, he took me to games and despite a second-and third-shift work schedule, managed to see my games as often as possible.

I remember him showing up at a batting practice one day when we had no catcher. He stepped forward and pulled a  new catcher’s mitt from behind his back. It was a joyful sight, and one of those baseball memories that come to mind with warmth.

I played for several years through high school, college, and men’s teams, and won a lot of championships, alongside some amazingly talented players. Several got the call and were drafted. I always envied them.

One of my favorite baseball highlights was playing on my son’s men’s team. They were short one player and I volunteered so they wouldn’t be forced to forfeit. At age fifty-five, I took the field and went one for three with three walks. It was a wonderful moment, and one I cherish.

Like the character in this story, I believe that every child should have the opportunity to participate in sports and not be denied for any reason. This game was created for the enjoyment of all.

I wish to thank all those who contributed over the years to this story.

Special thanks to Jayne Southern for her work on making this story reach its potential. So, glad to be working with you again.

Enjoy this wonderful tale, and please let me know what you think.

As always, read all you want ... I’ll write more.

PROLOGUE

What do you do when the cheering stops? It was a question he had eight long, lonely, guilt-ridden years to contemplate. The question stirred grim memories and haunted him with the brutal finality of the answer. His response wasn’t as drastic but in truth, hadn’t he died that night as well?

Head down, hands deep in his well-worn windbreaker pockets, and hoping no one recognized him this time, Walter Starr ambled along the quiet residential street of the small Midwestern town he called home, for now. The casual stroll was an initial exploration of his new neighborhood—the fifth new neighborhood in the fifth small town this year.

He hadn’t been newsworthy for almost a decade, since he was twenty-six, but every once in a while, someone recognized him, and it was time to move—if only to avoid answering the same painful questions that reawakened the emotional event that brought him to this moment. With luck, maybe he could stay a little longer this time.

The late afternoon, albeit early spring, still held the heavy chill of a winter that refused to let go. He drew in a deep breath, the cold air refreshing him and helping to keep the memories at bay. He stopped at the corner, looked, and crossed. A block later, the short residential neighborhood receded. Businesses, most abandoned long ago, lined one side of the deserted street. What he saw on the opposite side made him stop.

A surge of excitement followed by sadness struck him, both emotions stirring memories. He stared as if afraid to move. It had been so long. The sight flooded so many wonderful and momentous images through his mind, but as always, ended in sorrow, regret, and anguish when he allowed himself to reminisce.

As if drawn by some mystical force, he stepped into the street into the path of an oncoming car. The screech of tires broke the hypnotic spell. The driver, an elderly woman, looked as scared as he did. Walter lifted a hand in a wave of thanks, which morphed into a peace sign. She drove past, giving him a disproving look. He watched the car go, perhaps using its presence as an excuse not to follow the pull, then continued across the street.

He stopped by a padlocked gate and took in the dimensions of the baseball field. It was a much smaller and ill-maintained version of the one he’d spent eight years on. Eight glorious years, and then he’d walked away, leaving the fame and glory behind. So many regrets, so much guilt, but he still, and always would, missed the thrill.

The gate threatened to fall to the ground when he tried to move it. A thin chain was all that held it up. Why would anyone want to lock up a baseball field? He looked at the eight-foot fence that surrounded it. Hooking his fingers through the chain links, he gazed at the field. Overgrown grass. Rocks in the dirt. Deep holes in the batter’s box and pitcher’s mound. Broken wood that had once been benches. A sad tableau, yet the field he saw and the one he transposed over it, held immense beauty to him. An uncontrollable urge swept through him, as if his life depended on stepping on the field and absorbing the magic it nevertheless held.

His hands closed around the rusted chain links. Pulling hard, he rose, placing his toes in the small squares below, swung his legs over the top bar, and dropped to the ground. The contact jarred, shooting pain from his knees up through his spine and thumping into his neck.

Well, that was dumb. 

He straightened carefully, making sure he’d done no serious damage. Shaking out his legs, he walked toward the pitcher’s mound. In the recesses of his mind, a crowd roared. He imagined a full stadium. Memory smells assaulted him. An oiled leather glove. The smooth white hide of the baseball. Freshly mown grass. It all brought a smile to his face. He sucked in air and held the image for a glorious moment before the smells faded with the smile. Heavy sadness, his companion for the last eight years, returned as did the guilt. So much guilt.

Turning from the mound, he walked to the third base bench. The center section was broken, but a short piece of rotted wood over the metal base that supported the bench remained. He dusted it with his hand, sending a shower of dirt and splinters into the air, and sat down.

The memories burst to life in a surge of excitement, childlike enthusiasm, and endless joy. Maybe today those wonderful moments wouldn’t end with a body.

CHAPTER ONE

Atan car with a brown diagonal stripe running across both passenger side doors drove down the street, the word Sheriff highlighted within the stripe. Walter found himself shrinking his body on the bench as if he were a young boy avoiding eye contact with his irate coach.

Not that Walter had done anything wrong: he wasn’t wanted for a crime. However, he avoided contact with police of any title. Police drew attention, which in turn brought questions. Questions he’d rather not answer—again. Next, he’d be sneaking out of town in search of the next best place to hide for a while.

No, Walter hadn’t committed any crimes: he only felt like he had.

He watched as the sheriff’s car passed the field and turned at the first street. A rush of air blew from his mouth. Had he been holding his breath? That was a little extreme.

He turned his focus back to the overgrown baseball field. How had anyone who appreciated the game ever allowed this field to fall into such disrepair? Now, that was a crime.

As a boy, Walter had played on a field very much like this one, except his small-town field was well maintained. The Saturday morning games brought out the majority of the small Midwestern community. Town leadership, and a populace who recognized the value of youth sports programs, had built three fields in a complex

His father loved baseball and shared his knowledge of the sport with a son eager to be like him. By eight years old, Walter had developed a following. People he did not know stopped his father after the games and asked how the young Starr had done.

Walter recalled a championship game against Maxwell Hardware at age twelve. The batter ripped a hard ground ball to his left in the last inning of a tie game with runners on first and third with two outs.

The ball was reachable but took an unexpected bounce and smacked into Walter’s nose. The pain was sharp, but his focus was sharper. With blood running down his face, Walter pounced on the ball that had ricocheted away. Scooping it up bare-handed, he fired to the first baseman and ended the threat.

As Walter ran to the bench, the coach stopped him and looked at his nose. He shook his head.

I’m gonna have to take you out. I think your nose is broken.

Walter pulled away and went to his duffel bag, took out a t-shirt, and tore it into strips. He jammed cloth up each nostril, wiping away the blood with the remaining scrap. While the coach organized who would replace him, Walter stepped into the batter’s box. By the time the coach turned around to stop him, Walter had hit the first pitch over the fence to win the game.

He remembered looking up in the bleachers for his father as he rounded third base. Thinking of the proud smile on his father’s weathered face made Walter smile now. Baseball was good for that—bringing back warm feelings.

A young boy rode by on a bike. He spotted Walter and did a double-take before pedaling away. Walter wondered about the strange expression on the boy’s face when he saw Walter. Was it that he was an unknown person invading the town’s field, or something more?

Walter looked down and kicked at the dirt below him, just as he’d done as a boy. His feet stopped as the ground became a screen for the next memory. He was in high school, standing on the pitcher’s mound. Though but a freshman, Walter was the best pitcher on the varsity team.

The fluid wind-up began, his powerful leg pushing off the rubber. The whip of his arm released a ball that accelerated as it traveled the sixty feet six inches to the plate. The batter’s feeble swing was the final out in his first no-hitter. That it was the last game of the state championship made the accomplishment all the more sweet.

During the celebratory pizza party, the team and the coaches signed the souvenir ball and handed the trophy to Walter. He beamed as he read the names, his eyes filling slightly. When he turned to show the ball to his father, he was surprised to see a tear in his dad’s eye, too.

When he came home from school the next day, he found the ball had been placed in a protective acrylic cube and now sat dead center on the thick wood mantel. A framed picture of Walter throwing a pitch sat beside the ball. He stared at the shrine, unable to speak. Moments later, his father slid his arm around Walter’s shoulders.

I’m proud of you, son. Your mom would have been proud too.

His mother had passed away when he was too young to form sufficient memories to call up her image.

You worked very hard to develop your skills, and I want you to know that no matter what else you do, whether it’s baseball or not, I will always be proud of you. Keep up the good work. Who knows where you might end up? His father looked around the modest house. Away from here, anyway.

The picture faded; he wondered where that ball was now. His dad had been proud of Walter for his entire career. But even though he never said or showed it, Walter remembered the disappointment in his father’s eyes when he left the game at the height of his career.

His father had died a year later of heart disease, though to Walter, he’d died of a broken heart and Walter was responsible. It loaded the guilt he already carried, but was perhaps not his lowest point.

Walter looked up. He scanned from position to position, the best plays of his teenage years playing out in front of him like an ESPN highlight reel. Running catches in the outfield. Great throws that cut runners down. Amazing glovework when he played infield. But the best highlights were when he took the mound. Those flashbacks never faded.

His high school team won two state championships and one runner-up in the four years he played. In those four years, Walter lost only four games; none in his senior year. His efforts earned him full-ride scholarship offers to many big-time college programs. He settled on the University of North Carolina at his father’s encouragement to get as far away from small-town Nebraska as possible.

Dad, North Carolina will be too far for you to see my games.

Don’t worry, son. I’ll be there when it counts. This could be your best chance to get away from here. You don’t want to be trapped in a small town for the rest of your life, like me. Go. Find your niche. And if it’s baseball, all the better.

Walter went and it was baseball. And later, for eight amazing years, it was all the better.

CHAPTER TWO

H ey Mister, you ain’t supposed to be in there.

Walter stood abruptly, the voice shocking him from his reverie. He turned to face a boy of perhaps twelve sitting astride a bicycle and holding onto the backstop with one hand. The same boy who had ridden past before.

I-I didn’t know. Is this private property?

Well, you can see it’s locked up, can’t you?

Walter smiled at the boy’s attitude. He walked toward him.

What’d you do, hop the fence?

Yeah.

Ain’t you kinda old to be doing that?

Walter hadn’t thought about that. He was only thirty-five. Was that old? It was getting up there for a baseball player, but old for a player wasn’t old for everyone, was it? I was just reminiscing. I guess I didn’t think much about it.

You new around here?

Yeah. I just moved here.

Well, you should get out of there before you get caught. The police caught Johnny Lucci and Marvin Henderson fooling around in there and took them home to their parents. They warned them not to go in there again or they’d get arrested and fined.

Walter stopped a few feet short of the fence. The boy’s words made no sense. He studied the boy to see if he was making up the warning. He had wind-blown rust-colored hair and sported a pattern of tiny freckles under his eyes and across his nose.

I don’t understand. Why is the field closed up and in such bad shape? Don’t you boys play baseball here?

We used to, but there’s a whole big argument about who owns the land. The field’s closed up until they decide who the owner really is.

That’s too bad. Isn’t there another diamond anywhere else?

Nope.

Wait. Don’t you have a high school here? Where do they play?

We’re too small to have a high school. We get bused to Marshall, the next town over. Three towns get bused there. They got a field, but mostly it’s the Marshall boys who make the sports teams. They say it’s ’cause the rest of us live too far away to go to practices and such, but my dad says it’s because the Marshall people think they’re better than us.

Huh. That’s too bad. He looked over the field again.

Anyway, the boy continued, the field’s been tore up so bad that even if we were allowed, we couldn’t play on it.

Walter now saw the field differently. Before, he’d been lost in memories and hadn’t noticed it wasn’t just in bad shape; now he saw it was unplayable. A long scar ran from midway between first and second behind the pitcher’s mound all the way to third. It looked as if someone had dragged a tiller through the dirt. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough that the ground would need work to smooth it out. The backstop looked as if someone had tried to pull it down. The center section of the overhang drooped low, the connecting pipes busted at the joint and the opposing side bench yanked from the ground by the posts. Vandals had done a good job of putting the field out of commission.

Was this the work of local boys?

Hell—oops! Sorry, Mister. Heck, no. Nobody in this town would do that. There’s not much to do in this town in the summer except baseball. One of my friends said he saw a coupla men in pickups driving across the field, but I think he’s bull—er, making sh—stuff up.

Walter chuckled. So, you’re a ballplayer, eh?

Yessir.

Any good?

The boy took on a look of astonishment, as if Walter had insulted him. Any good? Mister, I’m the best player in this town and then some. I’m better than mosta them boys playing for Marshall.

Then why aren’t you playing for Marshall?

He shook his head in disbelief. That’s a mystery. My dad says it’s all about politics. I don’t know about that, but if it is, I sure can see why no one likes politicians.

Walter laughed. Before he could comment, the quick whoop of a siren drew his attention. A sheriff’s car parked along the curb. Walter thought, Oh shit!

The boy said, Oh shit!

Walter walked to the fence and climbed over. This time, he lowered himself to the ground gently. He approached the deputy, who had an arm out of the open window. As Walter drew near, the slightly overweight man said, Whatchu doing in there? That field’s off-limits. There’s a ‘no trespassing’ sign. Can’t you read?

Sorry, sir. I didn’t notice it. I was just reminiscing about my old playing days and got carried away. I’m new here and the young man over there just told me I wasn’t supposed to be in there. I apologize. I won’t do it again.

Well, you’d better not or I’ll have to run you in for trespassing. You got some ID?

Walter reached for his pocket but stopped. If he gave up his real name, he could be forced to move sooner than he wanted. But if he lied and got caught, he’d be forced to move anyway, and rather quickly.

My name’s Walter. His hand froze on his back pocket where he kept his wallet. I just moved in down the road there. I’m renting a room from Mrs. Kenny.

Oh? You’re staying with Darlene? She’s a good lady. You’d better not give her any trouble or I’ll come calling.

Hey, Sheriff? The boy rode up, putting a hand on the car’s roof. Don’t be too hard on him. He’s new here. I just told him the rules, so he knows them now. I’m sure he won’t do it again.

Mickey Norton, you vouching for this man?

I sure am, Sheriff. Besides, he’s a baseball fan. You gotta give a fan some slack.

The sheriff chuckled. Is that so? You a baseball fan, Walter?

Yes, sir, my whole life. Used to play on a field just like this one when I was Mickey’s age.

Just like this one?

Walter turned and winced at the field’s condition. Well, no. My town’s baseball complex was well cared for. This is a shame.

That’s not the half of it. We’ve got a lot of talented boys in this town, but there’s no place for them to play. Politics is bouncing this land around like a ping pong ball. The town council’s fighting for ownership, but there’s some powerful out-of-town factions that want the land for commercial use. Personally, I think it’s orchestrated by people in Marshall who don’t want us to ever be better than them in anything.

Walter didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t his town or his concern, but he did feel bad for the kids who lived here.

How soon will the dispute be settled?

I don’t know. Could take months, maybe a year. Both sides claim ownership, and right now, each is developing a case. In the meantime, these boys got no place to play.

I can’t imagine my youth without baseball, Walter said, more to himself.

No. Me either, but it is what it is.

What it is is some bullsh— Mickey said.

Can’t argue with that. And watch your mouth.

The radio came to life in a burst of static. The sheriff reached for it and listened. Okay, I’m on my way. He sighed. And there’s another reason we need something for these kids to do. To keep them out of trouble. He put the car in gear. Behave now, Mickey.

You bet, Sheriff.

See you around, Walter. Ah, didn’t catch your last name.

Walter’s mind raced for a name. Pulling one from the recesses of his mind, he said, Dawson. Walter Dawson. He froze.

The sheriff looked at him for a second and Walter thought he’d been caught, but the sheriff nodded once and drove off. A chill descended over him. The sheriff must have noticed. How could he have said that name? Of all the names he could have blurted, why that combination?

You okay? Mickey asked. You’re as white as a ghost.

Ah, yeah. I’m fine. I’m going to head home. It was good talking to you.

Mickey started pedaling. See you around. He rode off in the opposite direction.

Walter walked, unaware of the direction. What had he done? If the sheriff talked to Mrs. Kenny, he’d discover Walter had given her a different name. Why couldn’t he remember his new name when the sheriff asked? And dear God, why that name? His mind focused on a face from the past.

The face of his best friend. Words echoed in his head. I know what you do when the cheering stops.

CHAPTER THREE

The sun was setting by the time Walter arrived home. He used the key Mrs. Kenny had given him for the outer door—he’d walked so far it had taken a while to find the street. The house was a large two-and-a-half-story structure built in the early nineteen hundreds. Mrs. Kenny and her son lived on the main floor consisting of a kitchen, dining room, family room, and two large bedrooms.

The upstairs was separated from the main lower level by a door and held four good-sized bedrooms. One had been turned into a family room and had a sofa, recliner, two tables with lamps, and a recreation center sporting an old TV and stereo. A bookshelf lined one wall and held about fifty paperbacks and a Bible.

A second room had been refurbished as a kitchenette and shared bathroom. A refrigerator, hot plate, toaster, microwave, with two large and two small cabinets above a small imitation butcher’s block countertop comprised the kitchen. Set against the opposite wall was a yellow kitchen table with four chairs.

The outer door opened onto a small landing and the door in the center led into the main house. Another door to the left led to the basement, where Mrs. Kenny told him he could store his belongings, if needed. To the right were stairs up to his room.

Walter started up the wooden steps. Halfway up, a door opened behind him.

Oh! Mr. Kaline! a woman’s voice called.

Walter turned. He always used his favorite players’ names when he checked into a new place. Perhaps that was why he used Dawson with the sheriff.

Mrs. Kenny leaned out of the door. I was wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner since it’s your first night in town.

The invitation took Walter by surprise, yet he couldn’t deny it also excited him. Mrs. Kenny was very easy to look at. Ah ... well, that’s nice, but I wouldn’t want to impose.

Oh, nonsense. Did you eat yet?

Well ...

You must be hungry. Come. Join us. We’ve got plenty.

Walter needed something to clear his mind of the draining memories that had surfaced over the past two hours. Dinner with good food and good-looking company might be just the thing."

Okay, sure. I’d like that. Thank you.

Go ahead and put your jacket away and wash up, but don’t be long. Dinner’s ready now.

He smiled. I’ll be right there. Walter turned and took the stairs two at a time. The faint sound of laughter followed him. In less than a minute, Walter was pounding back down the stairs. He opened the inner door, met by a chorus of laughter. The kitchen was empty but held the aroma of the meal that waited.

Following the voices, Walter stepped into a dining room where three people were seated. He felt his smile slip for a second, then forced it back in place.

Aw, there you are, Mrs. Kenny said. Have a seat. We’re just starting.

Walter took the empty seat. To his right was Mrs. Kinney’s son Jared. He’d met the boy when he interviewed for the room. Across from him sat a tall, lean man with an angular face and calculating eyes. Something about him instantly made Walter nervous. He assumed the man was Mr. Kenny.

As soon as Walter’s butt touched the seat, a bowl of mashed potatoes was in his face. He ducked away, surprised. Then, realizing he wasn’t being assaulted, he took the bowl from Mrs. Kenny. His reaction made Mr. Kenny chuckle.

Careful there, or you’ll be wearing those taters.

Walter smiled and plopped two spoonfuls of the steaming potatoes on his plate. Next came a bowl of green beans. Rolls followed, then gravy, and pork roast. Walter had forgotten the last time he’d had a home-cooked meal. His mouth watered so much, he feared he might drool.

When everyone had been served, Mrs. Kenny bowed her head and said grace. It had been a long time for that, too. When she lifted her head, she beamed and said, Dig in.

Walter hadn’t realized how hungry he was. It took great effort not to shovel the food down his throat. Mrs. Kenny spoke and it helped to slow his pace.

So, Mr. Kaline, what do you think of our little town so far?

Walter set his fork down, but before he could answer, Jared said, Hey. Kaline, like Al Kaline, the great Tigers’ player?

Walter’s mouth opened. He looked at the boy with astonishment. That’s right. How did you know that? You’re not old enough to remember him.

Oh, Jared knows a lot of baseball trivia, his mother answered.

Yeah, Mr. Kenny said. He probably knows more than you.

So you like baseball? Walter asked. He cut a piece of pork and slipped the delicious morsel into his mouth. Oh dear God. Did I just moan out loud? Heat flushed his cheeks and he sneaked a peek around the table. They were all busy eating.

Yep. I love it.

Do you play, too?

In an instant, the boy’s expression soured. I used to.

Mrs. Kenny said, That’s kind of a sore subject around here. Our only baseball field has shut down.

Yeah. I saw that down the road. That field’s in bad shape.

Hasn’t been touched since last year, her husband said. Looks like it’ll be a new factory by this time next year.

A factory? That’s crazy. You can build a factory anyplace. Why take kids’ recreation away from them? Besides, who would want a factory built in their neighborhood? Walter scooped up another forkful of pork. The mmm was out of his mouth before he could pull it back.

Mrs. Kenny laughed. Well, thank you, Mr. Kaline. I’ll take that as a compliment.

This is very good, Mrs. Kenny. You’re quite a cook.

When Walter looked up, Mr. Kenny was staring at him, and what Walter saw deep in those eyes was not friendly. The man spoke, the tone taking on a harsh edge. For your information, this town can use the factory coming here. The jobs it will create will help a lot of struggling people. That land certainly has more value than just a children’s play area.

Walter looked down at his plate. He speared a piece of pork, put it in his mouth, and chewed at a deliberate pace. When he looked up again, Mr. Kenny was still glaring at him. Walter forced restraint over his mouth and held the man’s eyes.

Mrs. Kenny, aware the mood at the table had changed, said, Irwin, Mr. Kaline is new to town. He’s unaware of what’s going on here. I’m sure he didn’t mean to be insulting.

"That certainly wasn’t