Pure chance, though sooner or later, they were bound to meet. The Ahearn brothers were West End Irish, but they had moved into town for a place of their own nearer to work. Pat finished early in the morning, and Christy was on nights, so they had nothing to do on summer days but go to the ball games. By June, the four of them would go together, and Adele put aside her reservations just to be near the brash fellow.
At the gates, Pat paid the two-bit admission each for all four of them, as if a dollar was nothing, and he gave the man another dollar to find them seats in the grandstand beneath the shelter of the roof. The afternoon sun shone brightly, and she nearly swooned the moment she first saw the brilliant green field. Cut into the manicured expanse was a keyhole between the pitcher’s mound and home plate, and the paths around the bases were similarly shaped in dirt. In their cream-colored uniforms and brown hats and stockings, the New Yorks were practicing, throwing the ball with such effortless grace and impossible speed. Bordering the great lawn was a fence plastered with advertisements for everything from hair tonic to downtown restaurants. Just beyond ran the railroad, and beyond the tracks, barges and paddleboats sailed the Allegheny River, and on the other side of the water lay Pittsburg proper, the Point, and the hubbub of the city. She felt well away from all that in Exposition Park, almost as if out in the country for a summer’s picnic. The men had asked, and permission was granted, to remove their jackets, and they sat in their shirtsleeves like two stevedores. A negro in a white coat came by and offered to sell them a bag of roasted peanuts. Every few minutes, someone would wave or shout greetings to Pat and Christy, who seemed to know all of Pittsburg and Allegheny City. One such fellow in a derby and dark suit kept passing in the aisle near their bench, uncertain as to whether he might approach, until he became a thorough distraction. Finally, he caught Pat’s eye and made his way over.
“Hiya, Charlie.” Pat stood to greet him and shake his hand. “Caught us with a few friends. Miss Hopkins, Miss Jankowski, this here is Charles Wells. Good to see you, old boy, hope you enjoy the game.”
Charlie touched the brim of his bowler and went right to his point. “Who’d ya like today, Pats? I’ve a half eagle to put on the Giants.” He held up the gold coin.
“Ah, you’re crazy. They’ll be lucky if they score at all against the Deacon.”
“Phillipe’s pitching? You’ve got yourself a bet—”
“No,” Pat held up his hand. “No sportin’ for me today, chum. Can’t you see I’ve company? Ladies present.”
“Go on then,” said Charlie, “you’re jagging me with that.”
Pat shook his head and folded his arms against his chest.
“Don’t be like that, old sport.” He turned to address Adele. “Don’t you know this old man is but a reprobate?”
As quick as a hound, Pat found his feet, stepped on the empty bench in front of them, and had Charlie’s lapel in his grip. The man in the bowler squawked, and half the crowd, it seemed, turned around, and thus surrounded, Pat let go. Spry as a rat, Charlie was on his way, skittering down toward the field. One of the New York ballplayers, an older, stout fellow, was watching the fracas, and he cupped his hands in a megaphone and called to Pat, “Leave the poor sonofabitch alone, you big galoot.” He feigned throwing a baseball at the patrons in the stands, and all the cranks had a good laugh. Even Pat, his temper abated, flashed that toothy smile.
“Ain’t that something,” Christy told him. “That’s old John McGraw, the manager hisself, bawling you out.”
The Pirates came onto the field in their home whites, blue caps and collars, and the blue stockings with the red stripes. A great war cry rose from the crowd. At three or four spots in the bleachers, young boys clanged cowbells, and one put a cornet to his lips and blew out a three-note huzzah. As prelude to the game itself, the players tossed around the ball, and the pitcher went to the mound to doctor the dirt hill to his liking.
Adele had scores of questions, but she deferred all until the game itself began, preferring instead to let the experience invade her senses—the smell of peanuts and grilled sausages, wool suits in the summer heat, the thwack of the ball hitting leather mitts, the sight of men as gleeful as boys cavorting in the newly mown grass. As she had been warned, a fair amount of foul language peppered the hum of conversation in the stands, a few words she thought she never would hear, and every now and then, some gentleman would feel compelled to yell something disparaging at the foe. The cranks cheered at every New York out and hooted when the umpire decided the other way. The whole first inning passed by her notice. Too much was happening, and the man beside her gave her the vapors.
? ? ?
Across the room, from the cramped niche between the bathtub and the sink, whispers grew louder. Jane conferred with Alice on some secret matter, but they had become animated in their discussions to the point of overtaking the unfolding narrative of the baseball romance. The old man cleared his throat as a sign of disapproval.
“And who are you to stick your beak in it?” Alice asked him.