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Douglas, a heavy-drinking pitcher whose specialty was the spitball, was stamped from the same large mold as Hippo Vaughn. Despite the prohibition on liquor, Douglas’s spitters had enough alcohol on them that they could almost disable a batter by intoxication.
    I picked up my bat from the ground in front of the dugout and went to join the Cubs lining up at the plate.
    Willie was already there, first in line—until Wicket Greene elbowed his way in front of him. Greene was within his rights this time since the tradition was veterans before rookies. But it bothered me that Willie gave up his spot without a word.
    I had to get some life in that kid. I also had to find out what he’d been up to lately—not for Weeghman’s sake, but for his own. I was going to help Willie whether he wanted me to or not. The problem was breaking through his shell of silence.
    I suddenly dropped my bat and went to the bench for my glove instead.
    After Greene took his hits, Willie stepped up to the plate. I walked to the mound with my mitt open. “Let me pitch him, Phil.”
    Douglas turned his blood-shot eyes to me. “Sure, what the hell,” he said with a chuckle as he flipped me the ball. “Give him the spitter.”
    I didn’t have a spitter. Nor a curve, nor a fastball. I wasn’t a pitcher, and I hadn’t thrown batting practice since I was in the minors.
    Willie stepped away from the plate and lowered his bat, obviously disconcerted by my appearance on the mound.
    “Get in there busher!” I barked at him. “Afraid you can’t hit me?”
    He gave me a vacant smile and took a tentative batting stance.
    I wound up for the first pitch and let the ball loose—straight for his head.
    Willie fell on his rear to avoid it. I didn’t have a major league fastball, but I could throw hard enough and I could put it where I wanted.
    Willie cautiously stood back up and took his stance again.
    My next pitch went just behind his head, causing him to stumble forward. Angry rumblings came from the players crowded around the batting cage, and Fred Merkle hollered, “If you can’t pitch, get the hell off the mound!”
    After straightening himself, Willie slowly rubbed his palms on the front of his jersey and eyed me with a mixture of anger and disbelief. I could see him thinking: Brushbacks during batting practice?
    One more—at his chin.
    He leaned back just far enough to avoid it. Then he pointed his bat at me and yelled, “Put one over the plate and I’ll take your goddamn head off.”
    Yeah? Let’s see.
    I threw it down the middle, letter-high. He took an angry rip trying to kill the ball and tipped a weak pop up.
    He got more of the next pitch, hitting a hard grounder to short. He came closer and closer to me on subsequent hits until he nailed a line drive that forced me to duck. It flew over second base and rattled onto the platform, sending the workmen scurrying for cover.
    As I kept pitching, Willie got into a groove, hitting line drives up the middle that kept me hopping and the construction workers swearing. His face was alight now. None of the Cubs tried to oust him from the box, and their angry rumblings at me had turned to compliments on Willie’s hitting.
    Eventually I dropped the ball on the ground and announced, “That’s it for my pitching career.”
    Phil Douglas pulled himself off the dugout bench, where he’d stretched out to “rest his eyes,” and took the mound again to pitch to Fred Merkle.
    Willie took Douglas’s spot in the dugout. I followed him to the bench, leaving a few feet of space between us as I sat down.
    “Pretty good hitting,” I said, looking out at Douglas and Merkle.
    Willie spat and kept his eyes on the field. “Hell, Edna could hit your pitching.” A smile broke over his face. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen such a grin on him.
    I turned to him. “Felt good taking those rips, didn’t it?”
    He still didn’t look at me. “Yeah,” he conceded. “Damn good.”
    “Nice to see you