Adele stared at her shoes.
“I tell you what,” Pat said. “You girls stay right here in town, but when Pittsburg wins, what say you and me tie the knot, Adele? And Christy here can marry Helen, and we’ll have a swell old time.”
Adele had not thought the question of matrimony would be raised like this. She had dreamt of some more romantic setting than the grandstand of the ballpark and some more private moment than in a crowd of several thousand, mostly men. She had reckoned on some more enthusiastic declaration of love in ardor, rather than the afterthought of an out-of-town excursion, when folks she knew had gone to see the Falls at Niagara or honeymoon where a man and woman might get to know each other in a more sylvan or pastoral setting. But there it was, her first and only proposal, she feared, if that was indeed what Pat intended when the words were blurted from his mouth.
“Ma, ma, ma, ma,” the little boy yelled. “Da-da-da. Bap-a-doo, bapa-doo, Buddha, Buddha, Buddha.”
Making a cage of his entwined fingers, the old man scooped him up and lifted the bare belly to his lips and blew a frazzled raspberry on his soft skin. The baby laughed and so did the old man, until they were content, and the child wrapped his arms around the thin neck and laid his head against the old man’s shoulder. Within seconds, the child was asleep. Seeing how quickly he had conked out reminded me of the lateness of the hour, or the earliness of the morning, depending upon one’s perspective. I envied the little fella’s peace, his rest unburdened by adult cares. Perhaps some flaring anxiety had awakened me, not the need to empty my bladder. A worry. What had the newspaper said of Eddie Doheny? His mind is not his own? I had a few questions for the proprietor of mine, whoever that may be.
Adele and Helen wound their way through the mob gathered at the railroad station to greet the team home from Boston on an October Sunday evening. Despite the weather, the cranks had turned out in the hundreds, hoping to get a glimpse of Fred Clarke and the boys, triumphant in return, having taken two of the first three from the Americans. As they filed off the Pullman car, the ballplayers looked like farmers or mill hunks in their Sunday best, and they limped off the train like a company of soldiers, nursing the injuries of a long season. There was Jimmy Sebring greeting his new wife with a kiss. Sam Leever, old and tired, carrying his grip in his left hand, favoring his sore right arm. Little Tommy Leach and Ginger Beaumont engaged in some deep conversation. And there’s Honus Wagner, rushing off to catch the outbound train for Carnegie, waving at the well-wishers, his big German face creased with fatigue.
And then came the swells. The reporters and hangers-on who rode along with the team. The owner, Barney Dreyfuss, dapper in his cravat and mustache, whispered something to Clarke, who began to make a speech. Behind him cheered the sports, the gambling men who had gone to Boston in search of some action among the bookies there, for almost nobody in Pittsburg was willing to bet against the hometown team. The Ahearn brothers brought up the rear. Christy trotted straight to Helen. Despite her mother’s admonitions, Adele raced to Pat and threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him squarely on the lips.
He held on to his hat. “There’s my girl. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say this ball club would make good?” On the trip home, he gave her a present from Boston, a stickpin with a diamond nestled on top of a small baseball pennant. For luck, he told her, for the luck she brought him. They talked the whole time about the Boston trip and made their plans for Exposition Park and the next four games of the Series. He winced when she squeezed his hand.
“What’s the matter, Patsy?”
“Hurt my hand is all. Fella in Boston ran into my fist with his face.”
Autumn had arrived, and a chill breeze swooped along the Bluff and forced them to shelter on the front porch. Behind the lace curtains, Mr. Hopkins stirred at the sound of their footsteps, so Adele spoke quickly. “You don’t think you’ll have to go back there, do you?”
“To Boston?” Pat said. “Not on your life. We only have to win three out of four here, and it’ll all be over.”
She nestled close to him. “And we can be married?”
“Instantaneously.” He kissed her good night before her old man could knock on the glass.
“Barf,” Flo said. “Gag, retch, ick.”
“Don’t do it, sister,” Jane said. “That man ain’t nothing but trouble.”
“What man isn’t?” asked Alice. “Ask me, they’re all worth a bucket of nothing.”
“A thimble of bother,” said Dolly. “All talk, no action.”
Marie nodded. “Vendre la peau l’ours avant de l’avoir tué.”