The Robins of Iverhill: Chapter 13 – The Contract

NOTE: the following story, which will be serialized on this blog, was originally written in 1985 as my senior project in creative writing at Hamilton College. 25 years later, it has been updated. New chapters will appear Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. Previous chapters are listed with hyperlinks below.

PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1 – THE NEW MAN
CHAPTER 2 – ROOMMATES
CHAPTER 3 – UNWANTED RETURNS
CHAPTER 4 – OPENING DAY
CHAPTER 5 – RESULTS
CHAPTER 6 – CONFIDENCE
CHAPTER 7 – BUS RIDE
CHAPTER 8 – ARRIVAL IN BARK CREEK
CHAPTER 9 – BRAWL
CHAPTER 10 – BEDSIDE
CHAPTER 11 – DISCOVERY
CHAPTER 12 – RELEASE

My name is Francis Wilson.  My family owns the Wilson Baked Goods company, as well as Wilson Field and the Iverhill Robins.  Between us and Magedoma Lumber, we’re the entire industry in this town.

I was on the phone.

“Yes, Mr. Norton, I know, but… Yes, we could agree to five hundred thousand or so… His arm? I’ve never seen one more accurate… He calls himself Monty Mauntmaurency… That’s M-A-U-N-T -”

Three knocks on the frosted glass door. I had to end this call immediately.

“Mr. Norton, I’ll call you back. I’ve got business. Good-bye.” I hung up. No need for anybody else to know what I’m doing. “Come in.”

A very weary Genvieve McCarling opened the door. “Mr. Wilson, I’ve got to speak with you about Mauntmaurency.”

“Sit down, Genvieve. What’s the problem?”

“You mean you don’t know? Nobody told you?”

“About what?”

She scratched her head to relieve an itch. “Haven’t you seen him play?”

“Yes. He’s very good, isn’t he? I just got off the phone with-”

“Mr. Wilson, I want him off the team!”

That hit me out of the blue. “What are you worried about? He’s the best player we’ve got. He hits home runs better than Eugene Raveler, he’s a scrapper on the field, and he’s on pace to break the IBA home run record – and the few fans we’re getting into Wilson Field are coming here because of him. So what’s the problem?”

“Mr. Wilson, I don’t think you’re the one that understands,” she said. “Monty uses illegal plays – plays that make absolutely no sense. He’ll come up with a fantastic defensive catch, and then he’ll tell everyone the ball got past him – and then he tags the baserunner out as he’s rounding the bases.”

“Genvieve, that’s just being a dedicated ballplayer.”

“And he’s a bad influence on our players. I just bailed him and Olson out of jail last night. You didn’t hear about it because I got there before the Iverhill Sun and WIVR-AM did. We’ve got a doubleheader against New Providence tomorrow, and Olson’s not even in game shape.”

“Then if you want to fine Monty, then fine him.”

“That’s not what I meant! I’ve suspended him twice and it’s still not enough! The last three weeks, he’s been playing this 19th-century baseball style and it’s driving me crazy. I need him to play Iverhill baseball if he wants to stay with the Robins – and if you don’t think I’m right, then you can find another manager. Maybe this time find a man, ‘cause I’m sick of this OTHER publicity stunt. If you hired me for this game, did you hire me because I know baseball or because I’m another gimmick?”

“Listen, Genvieve, I wouldn’t have signed Monty if I didn’t think he was a good ballplayer. So he’s a bit of a hot dog. Pete Rose and Dizzy Dean were hot dogs, weren’t they?”

McCarling wiped her brow. “Sir, they weren’t complete idiots on the field. Or off. They knew how to play baseball. Either Mauntmaurency’s faking this whole hundred-year-old ballplayer routine, or he escaped from the funny farm.”

“Alright. Do what you like with him. Fine him, bench him. But he stays here on the Robins.”

“Come on, at least we can trade him to someplace else, can’t we?”

“With his average? The way he bats? 1 think not. We’re getting close to that home run record, and I want him hitting it for the Robins.”

But at that time, McCarling walked out of my office – and right into a slew of Iverhill’s sportswriters – Rick Heidrich and Warren Brown – both of whom were outside my office, waiting for her like lions trapping their prey.

“Coach McCarling, is it true that Mauntmaurency was signed to this team as a publicity stunt?”

“Coach McCarling, is it true that Mauntmaurency was signed because of league politics?”

“Coach McCarling, is it true that Mauntmaurency has a hallucinogenic drug addiction?”

McCarling turned towards Brown, who instinctively covered his crotch with his tape recorder, and she snarled, “YOU PEOPLE KNOW WHAT YOU CAN DO WITH THOSE MICROPHONES?”

She closed the door, and I went back to dialing the number for Mr. Samuel Taylor Norton, who called me earlier today and asked about Mauntmaurency. He said he was interested in purchasing the player, and was willing to pay a very strong price, so long as I was able to bring Monty to Mr. Norton personally.

As I dialed the number, I thought about how much McCarling doesn’t know about the Robins. I can’t let Monty go now, no matter how much of an influence he could be to the team. His market value is soaring with every game he plays, with his home runs, with his fast arm. Major league scouts are looking at him. I know his market value isn’t going up very high with the suspension, so I have to wait until after he’s hit a few more homers before I can sell him.

Oh, it was so much easier when we won games, back in the mid-1960’s. Iverhill couldn’t be stopped. Then the manager retired in 1969 – he claimed it was a health issue, but I heard it had something to do with finding out Gene Raveler was sleeping with either his wife or his daughter, and I had to get someone else. Nobody wanted the job. And that’s when I signed Genvieve McCarling. She knew baseball, and she seemed eager enough to take the job.

But we started losing games. Lots of games. And money. Lots of money. McCarling’s not a dummy; we do win games, but not as many as we could have won. And when fans stop coming, that’s the death-knell for a team.

I dialed the fifth digit in the telephone number. How could I tell her that I sold Davis and Sharaf last year so that the team could play this year? If I could find somebody who hasn’t received one of Raveler’s pea-brained “press releases” written by that exotic dancer he brought with him to spring training, he could have been sold, also. Now, I’m hoping Monty will get a good price so that we can at least finish out the season without totally going in the red.

I dialed the seventh digit, then hung up. I couldn’t bring myself to calling Mr. Norton back. It was too painful. What would my father say if he saw how I had bungled up this team? Not to mention the league itself, which still sent me bills clamoring for their guarantee bond for next year.

Monty had better do well in tomorrow’s doubleheader. For all our sakes.

---

My name is Genvieve McCarling. I’m the manager of the Iverhill Robins, and I’m trying to get through some paperwork before today’s doubleheader.

My father always kept at me to clean my room, and if he saw my office during my daily paperwork, he’d probably be disappointed at the mess here. Statistics, newspapers, scouting reports, telegrams, whatnot – it’s a wonder I can find my desk under here. Maybe my missing salary increase is buried under all this pulverized tree scrap.

This is just what I need to do. Bury myself in paperwork when I’m angry. It’s a hell of a lot better than tearing a doll apart, which is what I used to do. And with Wilson getting me riled, and that guy from the Sun still giving me headaches, I’m surprised I don’t have a high blood pressure warning as it is.

I’m not sure what happened this time, but I think I was reading the Iverhill Sun’s sports section, some talk about how the Iverhill Magedomas hockey team was signing a new lease agreement with the Iverhill Arena. But it wasn’t long, with all the anxiety, exhaustion, and all, before I started to nod off. And the funny thing about dreaming is that you never realize when you’re actually asleep, but instead you find yourself in the middle of a dream. You know you’ve spent some time in it, but not very much.

It’s sometimes like life.

I could swear I saw another office, this one could be mine, except that all the paper that would normally be strewn all over the desk was stacked in neat little bundles. Behind the desk sat a big pot belly of a man. I never saw this man before, but when he lit up a cigar, I thought it just might be a caricature of Old Frank Wilson. As the aroma of the cigar filled the room, I inhaled the smoke. It was sweet, not like the rolled newspaper Wilson smoked.

A rap-tap-tap on the door. “Come in,” the man coughed.

The door opened. Monty Mauntmaurency walked in. “Monty!” I shouted. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t hear me. His attention was focused elsewhere.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes. Sit down.”

Monty sat in the ornate chair directly across from the man.

“If it’s about last year, I can explain all those errors on the field – my hand protectors were starting to wear out, and I hadn’t enough money

“No. That’s not why I called you in.”

At that point, I realized that Monty was talking to what appeared to be a team owner of some sort. A manager. A bound check register on his desk said “Baltimore Base Ball Club.” Two words. Base Ball. Not as one word.

The man continued.  “Monty, I understand that some of your teammates have signed contracts for the Player’s League.”

“Yes sir.”

“Most notably, Tommy Tucker, Matthew Kilroy, and Bill Greenwood.”

“Yup. Bill and I were talking about that the other day.”

“I know. Bill said he spoke to you before signing the contract.”

“He might have.”  Monty seemed evasive and nervous.

“Monty, do you know John Montgomery Ward?”

“Yes. He’s the head of the Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood.  I know he’s been getting other players from other teams to join this new league of his?”

“Yes sir.  I’ve heard that too.”

The man’s face turned red with anger. “You know about this, and you didn’t think it was important enough to tell me about it?”

“Not much to say, sir.  They made the decision.  I didn’t.  I just said to them that I wanted to stay with Baltimore, and if they wanted to sign with the Player’s League, that was all right for them.”

Then Monty started to turn pale. “Sir… are you suggesting that I said to Bill that he definitely sign with the League?”

“Monty, this letter from John Montgomery Ward tells me you’re the one responsible to him for signing Baltimore players to his league.”

“He’s lying, sir, I would never undermine our team like that.”

“Monty… didn’t you say you were a member of this Brotherhood?”

“Yes sir … yes sir, I am.”

“And you did say you discussed with Bill the matter of leaving my team for the Player’s League?”

“Yes, I talked to him, but not about jumping the team, sir.”

“That’s all I need to know.”

With that, the man reached into his desk drawer.  With the cigar smoke furling in his ashtray, he pulled out a sheet of paper and placed it in front of Monty’s side of the desk.

I looked at it closely. It was the trading form Monty handed to our team secretary back in April!  The handwritings, the scrawled dates, they were all there, and in crisper form, undarkened by a century of time.

Monty looked at the form in disbelief. “What – what is this, sir?”

The manager put the cigar in his mouth, the scorched end of the rolled leaf turning fiery red as he inhaled. “Tucker, Greenwood, and Kilroy were three of my best players. Now they’re in this Players’ League and I can’t get them back. Do you know how much revenue I’m going to lose this year? Those three players drew fans into our park.  They put funds in our payroll. They won games.  Where is that money coming from now, Monty? Why didn’t you this was going to happen? I would’ve raised their salaries – I would have raised yours; too, for letting me know. Now, I have to sell the team. There’s a man in Brooklyn interested my team, and he’ll pay outright.  My team is moving out of this city, because I can’t keep my top men.

“This form, Monty, is a trading form.  I was going to rip this up if you told me you had no involvement with the Brotherhood or with my men leaving this team.  But I was wrong.  And I’m sorry.  So now you’re going to be sold.”

“Sir, I can explain – please, let me explain-”

“William McCarling in Albany expressed some interest in you, although I don’t know why. You’re not that great a hitter, your fielding is barely adequate, and if you stopped hitting the nightlife every night, you’d see the ball before it gets called the third strike.”

Monty looked crestfallen.  I could barely make out what was happening, as the cigar smoke in the room got thicker.

The man handed Monty the slip of paper. “I was lucky to get three thousand dollars for your contract.  I could have made that amount of money with Tucker, Kilroy and Greenwood in a month’s worth of gate receipts.  And here.”

He handed Monty a ticket.

“Your train leaves tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.  The last time I ever want to see you – is when you get on that train.”

“Sir, you can’t do this to me!  I had nothing to do with those players leaving!  You’ve got the wrong idea, sir!”  Monty’s face turned scarlet with each pleading word, until I thought he was having a heart attack.

“Monty…”  The man raised his hand for a handshake.  “Good-bye.  Do well for your new team.”

His hands trembling, Monty picked up the paper and the ticket. “Sir – you’ve got me all mistaken. I wish you could see what you’re doing is wrong.”

“Good-bye, Monty.”

Monty started to head for the door. “All I really wanted was a chance, sir, that’s all I really wanted.”

“You’ll find your chance in New York.”

All of a sudden I hear a phone ring. It shook me out of my dream, alerting me to the phone on my cluttered desk. Lifting it from the receiver, I puffed out, “Coach’s office.”

“Genvieve, this is Mrs. McDaniel.  I have more scouting reports here for you in the mail.”

“Okay, I’ll be down in a second,” I grumbled, dropping the receiver on the hook.

As I started for the door, I noticed something in my office mirror. Upon closer examination, I noticed the words ROBINS DOUBLEHEADER on my left cheek. I must have dozed off with my face on the table, and the Iverhill Sun newsprint stained my cheek!  Damn it, I mumbled, among other curses less suited for my gender, as I searched for the ladies’ washroom; which I knew damn well was the men’s washroom with a revolving front sign that, depending on which way it was flipped, either said MEN or McCARLING.