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Curveballs & Changeups: Bleeding Blue and Seeing Red
Curveballs & Changeups: Bleeding Blue and Seeing Red
Curveballs & Changeups: Bleeding Blue and Seeing Red
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Curveballs & Changeups: Bleeding Blue and Seeing Red

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Robert Campbell, a businessman from St. Louis, heads to Chicago in 1867 and meets William Hulbert, a mysterious man who tells him he plans to build a baseball field. Hulbert claims that baseball in America will be a grand new pastime and a grand new business opportunity.

In 2006, Scott Banks is a devoted Cubs fan even though hes moved to St. Louis and is married to his well-meaning, Cardinal-loving wife. Life for Banks is on cruise control until he gets the chance to fulfill a dream of a lifetimebut it comes with a curveball. Suddenly, hes forced to face the gut-wrenching realities that have him swinging and missing lifes off-speed pitches. Modern time is intertwined with a nineteenth-century depiction of the birth of a storied rivalry in Curveballs and Changeups.

LanguageEnglish
PublisheriUniverse
Release dateMay 18, 2015
ISBN9781491760949
Curveballs & Changeups: Bleeding Blue and Seeing Red
Author

K.P. Kmitta

K. P. Kmitta writes part time, usually reflecting on the world of sports. This is his first novel. He graduated from Northern Illinois University with a degree in journalism. In addition to his business career, he has been active in many sports, including vintage baseball. He lives in Belleville, Illinois, with his wife.

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    Curveballs & Changeups - K.P. Kmitta

    Curveballs

    and

    Changeups

    K. P. Kmitta

    38352.png

    Curveballs and Changeups

    Copyright © 2015 K. P. Kmitta.

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

    Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

    iUniverse

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    Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

    Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

    Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

    ISBN: 978-1-4917-6093-2 (sc)

    ISBN: 978-1-4917-6095-6 (hc)

    ISBN: 978-1-4917-6094-9 (e)

    Library of Congress Control Number: 2015902484

    iUniverse rev. date: 05/13/2015

    Contents

    Prologue

    ~ 1 ~

    ~ 2 ~

    ~ 3 ~

    ~ 4 ~

    ~ 5 ~

    ~ 6 ~

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    ~ 32 ~

    ~ 33 ~

    ~ 34 ~

    ~ 35 ~

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    ~ 40 ~

    ~ 41 ~

    ~ 42 ~

    ~ 43 ~

    ~ 44 ~

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    ~ 46 ~

    ~ 47 ~

    ~ 48 ~

    ~ 49 ~

    ~ 50 ~

    ~ 51 ~

    About the Book

    In memory of my mother.

    Prologue

    1867, Chicago, Illinois

    Robert Campbell found himself at the corner of Water and La Salle Streets, staring at the twin oaken doors of the Chicago Board of Trade. It was a blustery Wednesday morning in early February, and the wind riled a light snow that whipped at his face, as if trying to convince him to get back on board the train and return to St. Louis, where it was sure to be warmer. To back out now, however, was not going to be an option. That he was even here was still a mystery to him, and he intended to get it figured out.

    Thankful for the second pair of socks his wife had insisted he wear, he wrapped his overcoat tighter around himself, took a deep breath, and strode forward.

    The doors opened easily, and he stepped in.

    Campbell had found himself in the awkward position of having to travel to Chicago to secure financing for yet another of his commercial projects—this time a Kansas City–based headquarters for his cattle drive company. Although he owned a bank in St. Louis, his advisers had strongly suggested that it was time to move outside the city for additional capital, that a trip elsewhere might be a wise thing to do. Locate the Chicago Board of Trade building, and find someone there to ask for directions to the First National Bank, one of them had said to him. Campbell had looked back at the man with suspicion. He felt that somehow he was the object of some plot or, worse, the butt of a joke.

    The Board of Trade is not even a lending institution, he had objected.

    It did not matter; they seemed to have the answers (to him, rehearsed) to all his objections, and despite his protests, he had been outnumbered and outvoted.

    Time was of the essence, as he and his wife had been planning an extensive stay in Europe the following year, and Campbell resigned himself to making the trip to Chicago.

    Now, he found himself standing within the interior of the Board of Trade building, and what he saw was impressive but not quite as much as he had anticipated. Brilliant sunlight cascaded through the magnificent windows, highlighting each and every speck of dust. Campbell detected a musty smell that indicated wet and warped wood from some unknown source. There was little ornamentation, but there was no doubt this was a place for serious business. Footsteps echoed, and a voice or two bounced off the walls. Men stood in groups, discussing things in low murmurs. Most of them had their backs to the door, and it seemed to Campbell they couldn’t have cared less that a visitor had just arrived.

    Campbell stood in place and brushed the remaining snow from his shoulders as he scanned the interior for someone to approach. Spotting what he believed to be an information desk, he began to move forward just as a tap on his back stopped him. He turned slowly and faced a dark-haired man who stood at least two inches taller than his own six feet.

    It’s not much, but it serves the purpose, the man said. I suspect we’ll be soon relocating, and most assuredly into a brand-new world-class facility.

    Campbell was immediately impressed with the intensity of the dark eyes. They seemed to shine with ambition and drive.

    I’m William Hulbert, sir, the man said, and I’ve seen your expression before. I assume you are from out of town and in need of assistance.

    And you are correct, Mr. Hobart—

    "Ah, it’s Hulbert. Hulbert."

    Yes, Mr. Hulbert. You are very perceptive.

    They shook hands, and Hulbert listened to Campbell’s explanation for the visit to Chicago. Campbell felt an immediate connection with the man.

    Mr. Campbell, Hulbert said, I’m calling it an early day today. Why don’t you join me for a walk, and I’ll take you to whom you need to talk to.

    Campbell gratefully accepted, and a minute later they were walking on the windswept wood-plank sidewalks. As they strolled, they shared each other’s stories. Campbell listened closely as Hulbert spoke proudly of Chicago and the expected growth to come. It was obvious to Campbell that this man had a great love and ambition for the city. As he wrapped his frock coat even tighter around himself, he realized that he had been making comparisons between Chicago and St. Louis from the moment he arrived at the train station. Both cities, he felt, were poised for major growth and expansion.

    Campbell enjoyed answering Hulbert’s questions about his days as a trapper in the rugged Rockies and his role in the development of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. Hulbert also wanted to hear more of Campbell’s efforts on behalf of the government toward a solution to the displacement of the Plains Indians.

    During the course of the conversation, Campbell developed the mystifying feeling that Hulbert somehow had the ability to know what Campbell was going to say next, even before he said it.

    Within minutes, they arrived at the First National Bank of Chicago, and banker Edmund Aiken quickly finalized the financing for an impressed and appreciative Robert Campbell.

    That was completed in record time, Campbell said as he and Hubert exited the bank. It was like he was already prepared to handle what it was I needed!

    Would you like to see more of the city, Robert?

    A sudden gust of wind almost knocked Campbell off his feet. He noticed that Hulbert utilized a pronounced lean to combat the effects of the wind.

    William, I would love to see more of the city, but I need to ask: will we be walking with the wind or against it?

    Mr. Campbell—Hulbert laughed—the winds off the lake can certainly make for some adventuresome times! I have another business venture I’d like to share with you. It’s somewhat unorthodox, so I hope you’ll find it interesting. Regarding the wind, we won’t be walking in it at all! We’re going to hop onto a train. We can board just two blocks away.

    Hulbert led them to the Rock Island line, and they boarded a train for the southern edge of the city, getting off at Halstead. They walked several blocks to Gordon Street.

    Hulbert stopped and took hold of Campbell’s elbow. Can you see what’s ahead?

    Campbell searched the snow-covered terrain in front of them for anything recognizable. Other than the enormous property of the stockyards looming to the right, he detected nothing but the unmistakable strong odor of something that he knew something about. I’m safe in assuming cattle are ahead, he said.

    Yes, Robert. That’s the Union Stock Yards, but there is more. Let’s walk on. Hulbert moved forward, not waiting for a reply.

    Campbell silently groaned and followed. The crest of the snow crunched under the weight of his feet, allowing him to sink through the additional four inches of the softer snow that lay beneath the surface.

    At Forty-Seventh Street, Hulbert directed Campbell through a narrow gate and onto the grounds of the stockyard. Hulbert had Campbell follow him south another block to what appeared to be a flat field.

    I thought you said we were not doing any more walking, Campbell said. He was feeling a bit exasperated. It had been years since his days as a mountain man in the Rockies, and even there he had not felt this kind of cold and wind. He was getting annoyed that his new friend seemed oblivious to the cold.

    Hulbert did not reply, only saying, Um-hmm. He pointed straight ahead and said, See that?

    Campbell stared ahead, straining his eyes for anything recognizable. A midafternoon appearance of the sun reflected off the snow, almost blinding him. Beneath the layer of snow, he eventually made out the general outline of an oval track. Wooden bleachers no more than twenty feet in height surrounded most of the property.

    Campbell spotted a sign near where they stood. It’s a horse track! Dexter Park! he said, fully expecting to have solved the mystery. He was anxious to get back to the warmth of the next train and return to his hotel.

    In three or four years this will be much more than a horse-racing facility, Hulbert said.

    Campbell noticed Hulbert’s voice had taken on a softer, almost reverent tone, barely heard over the slight moan of the incessant wind. He again turned to face Dexter Park. They stood silent as Campbell awaited an explanation. Their breath reached out into the air in streams of thick steam.

    You are also looking at a base ball field, Hulbert said. "It will soon be a base ball field. Do you know about base ball, Robert?"

    I know of the game, William. I have to admit that I do not know much about it. He squinted forward and tried to use his imagination but saw nothing that resembled a base ball field.

    This is going to be the home of my base ball club, Hulbert continued. Just several years ago this was swampland. If I have my way, it’s going to be a valuable piece of property in the years to come. Mr. Campbell, base ball in America is similar to the development of the next exciting new frontier—a word you should be familiar with. This is something you should someday be interested in.

    Campbell made an effort to appear to be in quiet awe, keeping his eyebrows arched, as if deep within a vision of his own. Mr. Hulbert, he said, hoping he was a good actor, I see your vision and your enthusiasm. I know they play the sport in St. Louis. When I get back, I promise you I will look it up. He was willing to say anything just to put an end to the day.

    Hulbert looked pleased. Excellent, Mr. Campbell, just excellent. Now, let’s get out of here. I’m freezing my ass off.

    Robert Campbell returned to St. Louis a puzzled man. He still had not understood the stubborn insistence by his board for the Chicago trip, although the mission was accomplished. He was surprised by William Hulbert’s obsession with base ball, and, as he had promised, Campbell did take the time to explore base ball in St. Louis.

    ~ 1 ~

    1967, St. Joseph Church, La Salle, Illinois

    A boy sat five rows behind Big Frankie and Vito Vitale and laughed so hard that his face hurt. These guys are great. This is too good to be true, he thought. The parishioners of St. Joe’s had proven so far to be very—even if not intentionally—entertaining. He was already hooked on the odor of beer and cigar smoke, a concoction all the more amazing considering it was still only ten in the morning. The boy had the feeling this day was going to somehow be a game changer. Game changer was a term he had only just begun to sprinkle his vocabulary with. This was good because the kid felt he needed a break, needed something to happen. He felt his life was in a rut, too predictable and boring, and though he had not yet reached his teens, he felt he was getting old.

    It had not been to this point a particularly good weekend (just the day before he had lost his favorite football at the Pitstick Pavilion swimming pond in Ottawa). He stared at his shoes—shiny new Beatle boots. They were two sizes too large in order to accommodate his high instep. He sighed as he realized he should have just worn his Red Ball Jets.

    "Everyone, shut up!" Big Frankie screamed, interrupting the boy’s thoughts. The interior of the bus rattled.

    Frankie Wojciechowski stood near the front of the bus and appeared momentarily startled at his own voice. He straightened the red baseball cap that was perched tightly on his head. Frankie’s bright-red, short-sleeve polyester shirt strained at the seams. Despite the cool temperature, perspiration dripped from the big man’s chin. He continued, The padre is going to give us his blessing! And take your hats off, for cripes’ sakes!

    The bus quieted. No one wanted any more delays. It had been a long mass. Father Smith had made sure of that.

    It was a trip—an expedition—to Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs. The men of St. Joe’s were going to see the Northsiders compete in a Sunday baseball tradition: a daytime doubleheader. They did not consider it just another typical day at the ballpark; the opponent this day was the rival from the south, the St. Louis Cardinals.

    Even for a country that had already lost its innocence, this was a year of big change: Vietnam, trendsetting movies, drugs, hippies, civil rights and women’s rights, and peace and love. The Camaro became Chevy’s answer to the Mustang. The Summer of Love was the end for Woody Guthrie but the beginning for many other new artists that fueled change.

    The world of sports was not immune. The Green Bay Packers defeated the Dallas Cowboys for the NFL championship, also known that year as the Ice Bowl. UCLA, with Lew Alcindor, won the first of its seven national basketball championships. Muhammad Ali, no longer Cassius Clay, was found guilty of draft evasion and stripped of his World Heavyweight Champion boxing title because of his objection to the Vietnam War due to religious beliefs.

    And on Route 66 in St. Louis, Johnny Mac opened his first sporting good store.

    In Chicago, anticipation was in the air as manager Leo Durocher had a refreshing, young Cub team on the rise. After years of futility, there was finally a genuine cause for optimism, and that optimism was on full display in the bus.

    Big Frankie leaned heavily across Vitale’s rail-thin body. Vitale’s bushy eyebrows almost matched the length and color of his dark-brown beard, and they were now arched in contemplative shock. Frankie forced his wide head as far as it could go through the window, like a buffalo straining for that tasty bit of grass that lay just on the other side of the fence. Go ahead, Father, he said, I finally got—

    Reverend Raymond Smith, who had been waiting outside the bus for everyone to get reverently quiet, sprayed the big man’s face with holy water as it spewed from the priest’s dented and well-used aspergillum. Whether it was an accident or on purpose, no one knew for sure; it was a debate among the church members for years to come.

    Frankie recoiled in a spasm of coughs and choking sounds and banged his head with a resounding thud on the top of the window frame. He barely managed to hang on to his cap—a St. Louis Cardinal cap—as it narrowly missed dropping to the damp sidewalk below. The Vitalis he lathered into his brown hair that morning left a greasy smudge on the glass.

    Vitale, free of Frankie’s weight and without apparent injury, could not resist a comment. Hey, everybody, he shouted in a voice carrying remnants of an Italian accent, "Big Frankie’s drowning on holy water-uh! But not to worry, not even Frankie could go to hell drowning on holy water-uh!"

    Serves the Cardinal fan right! someone else yelled.

    The explosion of laughter within the bus set the tone for the day.

    The boy wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. A moment later he felt the forward movement as the driver shifted the bus—a yellow 1955 Carpenter over a bent GMC frame—into gear and depressed the accelerator. A cloud of blue exhaust, accompanied by a loud backfire, provided the push to get the bus rolling.

    At the front of the bus, a tall man by the name of Mickey Rochetti lost his balance and almost toppled over as he stood at the makeshift urinal constructed by the boy’s uncle; a corrugated tin tub full of ice with holes drilled at the bottom.

    A quick right and they were heading due east on Route 6—that is, as long as Wally held the steering wheel a constant twelve degrees left.

    The men settled into predictable routines: poker, euchre, raffle tickets, newspapers, and smoking—a lot of smoking. Bottles of Star Union beer and cans of Old Style were tossed through the air by a smiling thin man by the name of Ziggy Kasmerski. Ziggy was a nickname for a first name that most of the parishioners could not pronounce. For the most part, the metal missiles had landed into the eager hands of his intended targets.

    The drizzle continued, and the windows were open just a crack. The air inside the bus was thick with the scent of cigarettes and cigars.

    Sitting across the aisle from the boy was his father, masterfully reading the Chicago Tribune’s sports section while juggling a cigar and a bottle of beer.

    Seated two rows behind, on the opposite side of the aisle, sat the boy’s grandfather, holding court with his usual one-liners for anyone who would listen. He knew the old man never tired of telling his stories and jokes, and it did not matter if it might actually be the same one for about the fifth time in the span of a month. He was just close enough that he could hear his grandfather delivering the punch line to one of his favorites, something about two antennae that got married and had a great reception.

    The boy reached into the pocket of his Windbreaker that his mother insisted he bring with him and pulled out a Jolly Rancher candy. Carefully removing the clear plastic wrap, he popped it into his mouth. He silently saluted his two older sisters as the wonderful watermelon flavor saturated his taste buds. Prior to leaving for church that morning, he sneaked into their bedroom and pilfered exactly eight of the candies from their dresser top. He now had the thievery down to a science, and they would never know they were missing. He was especially proud of this morning’s heist. Left scattered within the remainder of the watermelons were four less-than-desirable cherries he expertly rewrapped and made to appear as the much more preferred watermelons. He wished he could have seen the faces of his sisters upon their unpleasant and shocking discovery.

    The boy looked again at his grandpa. The last several summers he had been helping in the garden behind his grandparents’ house. The house was only about five blocks away, so he easily made the run on foot once or twice a week to help out with the spading, hoeing, or weed pulling. He learned a lot about gardening from his grandpa, and he really enjoyed the work.

    It seemed lately the boy could count on his grandfather to take at least one tumble into the soft, upturned soil of the garden. As he extended his hand to help his grandpa back to his feet, the old man always laughed and turned it into a lesson. There’s no shame in falling, kid, the old man would say. Just be sure to always get back up. And don’t ever be ashamed to accept a helping hand!

    Mostly, though, he enjoyed sitting on the front porch with his grandfather after the work was done. If he was lucky, the Cubs would be playing a home game that afternoon. In those days, they were all day games. They would listen in on the game through his grandpa’s transistor radio as Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau provided the Cubs play-by-play. The transistor was special. It was larger than most, and protected by a light-brown leather case. There was also a mysterious extra dial or two that suggested this was a radio not meant for his hands. The kid was actually terrified of it. Gradually, the boy began to become familiar with the name of the Cub players, although the listening wasn’t always easy through the metallic static that usually accompanied the broadcasts. It also seemed to the boy that the only batteries his grandfather ever owned were destined to burn out each and every time he visited.

    The boy’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of laughter from several rows behind him. His grandpa had managed to get off another joke. He knew this to be another of the old man’s favorites, the one he only tells when he is in a great mood. It was the one about the two cannibals eating a clown, and one asks the other, Does this taste funny to you?

    .   .   .   .

    The boy stared in awe as they finally arrived at Clark and Addison. Jesus, he thought. Before him was what he felt the equivalent of the second church they were all going to be in that day—Wrigley Field. He ran his fingers through the hair he only recently began to grow out from his normal flat-top style. The reassurance of the fresh goop of Brylcreem he had applied that morning was comforting.

    The boy studied the outside of the old ballpark. He noted the red marquee that read, Wrigley Field—the Home of the Cubs. This place is much bigger than I thought it would be, he said out loud. He also thought that it looked older. He recalled reading recently that the great Babe Ruth had played here.

    Something else caught his attention—an organ playing from within the park. What is that? he asked. I thought we left church behind!

    Mike Gladhour, the parish school’s science teacher and a self-proclaimed wilderness survivalist, said, Wrigley Field is the first professional baseball stadium to use an organ, young man.

    Attendance that day was almost thirty-two thousand people. Up to that point, the largest group of people the kid had ever seen gathered at one time was at the 9:00 a.m. Christmas mass in 1965. It was the only time anyone could remember Vito finishing ahead of Big Frankie with the collections. In his failed attempt to catch up that morning, Frankie had shifted into a higher gear and had solidly smacked the back of the head of a hoity-toity woman, appropriately named Mrs. Constance Headwurst, with his basket.

    Once through the main gate, the boy observed the steel girders, the bare walls, and the rain-dampened concrete floors. He also noticed the concession stands and, most importantly, the pictures! Black-and-white head shots of the current Cubs players hung in a horizontal fashion along the top of one of the inside concession stands. He took note of Williams, Santo, Banks, Hundley, Kessinger, Beckert, Jenkins, Popovich, Holtzman, and the rest of 1967 Cubs squad, thrilled to be finally putting faces with the names.

    Another picture stood out from the rest. It was off a bit to itself, just above the photo of center fielder Adolfo Phillips. Like the others, it was in black-and-white, but it was slightly smaller and not autographed. It was a photograph of a distinguished and serious-looking man who wore a thick mustache and was dressed in the clothes of an older time.

    The boy examined the name at the bottom of the photograph and recruited the help of his dad. Do you know who William … Hoo … ah … William Hulbert is?

    His father shrugged. No, I don’t. I’ve never noticed that picture there before. I have no idea who that man is. His dad continued to stare. William Hulbert, he said to himself. He turned and said, We better keep moving, son. They’re going to start the game without us!

    They moved fast to catch up with the rest of the group. The mystery of William Hulbert was unceremoniously dropped and not to be discussed again by the kid until decades later.

    Soon they were at the base of the steps that helped form the narrow concrete chute that would lead up into the ballpark. Small, muddy puddles remained on each step after the earlier rainfall. The tunnel was dark, but there was light at the end. The men of St. Joe’s looked up, as if expecting to see the Holy Spirit beckoning them on. The boy was thrilled to see bits of reassuring blue sky as it appeared at the very top of the ten concrete steps. Like a moth to a lamp, he was drawn to the sunlight and joined the rest of them as they began their quiet ascension up the steps. To the boy, it was the closest to having a religious experience outside of actually being within the church.

    The buzz of the crowd amplified as new sounds—ballpark sounds—were introduced to the group with each step upward. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn beckoned them on. The nearer to the top, the more of the blue sky became visible to them, contrasting sharply against billowy white clouds. The boy sensed there was something special and exciting waiting up there for him—much more intriguing than the grainy image seen on his parent’s black-and-white TV.

    They arrived at the top step. To their relief, the temperature seemed to have jumped by ten degrees since they had arrived. The boy’s grandpa looked down at him and said, Go ahead!

    Yeah, go ahead, son, his dad added. We’ll be right behind you.

    The two gentlemen shared a smile, perhaps remembering the time they also first walked into a major-league ballpark.

    The boy stepped forward and froze still. Not one of the boy’s daydreams about what a major-league field looked like had accurately captured this.

    The colors inside

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