Murder at Fenway Park:. Troy Soos

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      The next day, I did get a turn at batting practice, probably because nobody else wanted one. It was a chilly sunless spring afternoon and there were bees in the bats. Unless the ball was hit with the sweet part of the bat, it stung like hell to make contact.

      Since I was starting the game this time, I paid attention to the field instead of the bleachers and the fans. And to get my mind off the message that was left in my room, I tried to concentrate on the proper use of a baseball bat. After taking my practice hits, I checked out the ground near home plate. I wanted to see how far a bunt would travel, and in what direction. Some groundskeepers graded the foul lines so that balls would tend to roll either fair or foul, depending on their own team’s bunting skills. The ground here looked level, but it was packed hard. To keep the ball from skipping too fast and far, I’d have to deaden a bunt by holding the bat loosely.

      I headed back to the dugout where most of the Sox sat huddled in their red plaid warm-up jackets. Without a jacket of my own, it struck me how drab the Red Sox uniform was in comparison with the bright coats. The entire outfit was flat gray with faint blue pinstripes, even the bill of the cap; the only extra decoration anywhere was BOSTON spelled out on the front of the jersey in navy block letters. The Red Sox’s new ownership may have done a great job building Fenway Park, but Bob Tyler and his partners would have done well to snazz up the team uniforms some, too.

      Only two other players lacked the colorful overcoats: pitcher Charlie Strickler and catcher Billy Neal, an aging battery that just joined the team. Continuing his effort to bolster the injured Red Sox roster, Tyler bought the duo from Frank Navin for $5,000 cash. It gave me some degree, if only a day’s worth, of seniority on the team.

      Holding the lineup cards in one hand and a battered brown megaphone in the other, the plate umpire faced the crowd behind home plate and announced the starting lineups. He must have given the names of both nines, but all that caught my ear was Rawlings, Second Base. I savored the sound as it echoed through the stadium.

      The Highlanders were throwing Jack Warhop at us. Smoky Joe Wood, the only Sox player who looked as young as I, was pitching against him.

      Harry Hooper again led off the game, this time by popping out to third. Duffy Lewis and Tris Speaker went down easily, too, and I trotted to second base as the Sox took the field.

      I quickly discovered why Joe Wood was called “Smoky”: he threw the ball so fast that the only thing visible was the smoke that seemed to trail behind it. I used to think this an exaggeration by the sportswriters, but the blur of the speeding ball really made it look like it had a tail of steam. Smoky Joe had his best stuff this day; he shut down the Highlander batters in the first inning, striking out the side.

      The game was still scoreless when I led off the top of the third. I chose my spot for the first pitch: curveball, belt-high on the outside corner. That’s where Warhop put it, and I took a cut. The ball broke sharper than I expected, and I topped it a bit, hitting a hard grounder between third and short. I tried to leg it out to first, as the shortstop went in the hole to field the ball. I should have been out by a step or two, but the play didn’t click somehow. As usual, Hal Chase had been playing a deep first base, and he didn’t get to the bag in time for the throw. The ball skipped off Chase’s glove and flew into the stands. I went on to second base as the umpire retrieved the ball from the fan who caught the overthrow.

      That play felt funny. The timing was off, and it shouldn’t have been. I looked to first base, and saw Chase smirking as he moved back into position. Was he playing his games again? Although Chase was unquestionably the best fielding first baseman in the game, he was known for slacking off at times. Rumors had it that he was friendly with gamblers and would sometimes throw games for his pals. But I don’t think anyone ever actually caught him at it. Perhaps the stories circulated only because there are always rumors about odd people—and Chase was certainly that. Who but a screwball would throw lefty and bat righty?

      While I speculated about Chase, Warhop picked me off second. It is impossible to think and run at the same time.

      The innings passed quickly with neither team scoring.

      Whenever the Sox batted, I kept my eyes on Hal Chase, looking for any funny business. If he was trying to throw the game, he’d have to blow some more plays.

      In the fourth, Duffy Lewis grounded to third and again Chase didn’t make it to the bag in time. He did look to be hustling, but again the rhythm of the play was wrong.

      My next at bat came in the sixth. With a 2–2 count, Warhop served up a low lazy curve. I slid my right hand up the barrel of the bat and rapped down at the ball with a short stroke. The ball shot off the wood, down onto the hard earth. It hit a foot in front of home plate and bounced up to the height of a pop fly. By the time it came down, I had crossed first base safely. Hal Chase glared at me with pale gray eyes and greeted me with scorn, “Nobody hits Baltimore chops no more.” That’s okay—so what if I’m old-fashioned? I’m on first base with a single. But there I stayed, as the hitters who followed me went down on outs.

      The game remained scoreless into the top of the ninth inning. And that’s when I figured out how Hal Chase did it.

      Jake Stahl hit a grounder to third to open our half of the inning, and I kept my eyes on Chase from the moment the bat made contact. While the ball skipped to the third baseman, Chase stayed anchored well off the first base bag. Then just before the ball was fielded, he broke for the base. When the third baseman’s throw arrived, Chase was hustling as hard as he could to take the throw at first—but his initial delay ensured that he wouldn’t be in time to catch the ball cleanly. The son of a bitch. He was really throwing the game.

      Yesterday, with the sight of a dead man still fresh in my eyes, I would have thought that murder was the most heinous of crimes. But now I’d seen Hal Chase try to throw a baseball game. It was an offense that seemed worse than murder—a crime less gruesome, but a sacrilege more sinister.