June 24, 1887
Rejoice, my friends, for all is right in the world again, even if only for three games. King Kelly has come home to the Windy City with his Beaneaters from Boston for matchups at the great West Side Park.
But this burgeoning rivalry will take a backseat to the King trying to exact revenge—on his former owner, A. G. Spalding, rather than on his former manager and teammates.
He looks down the line to see Cap Anson at first, still serving as player/manager for the White Stockings. He tips his cap and mouths “Hello” to old Cap.
He looks beyond him to see the Lord’s latest convert, Billy Sunday, born again unto Jesus, a Bible likely tucked into his jersey. Scripture can’t compare with what we’re going to see tonight.
Sitting just beyond the visitors’ dugout is Agnes, Mrs. Kelly, looking as magnificent as she has in previous seasons, although she sat opposite this spot then. She’s flush with color and radiating in the afternoon sun.
In the old section of the park is the aforementioned Spalding, a cigar hooked in his mouth, the edges burning brighter than the King’s red hair. He sent the speedster to Boston for $10,000 at the end of last season. What a steal for the Beaneaters.
The White Stockings have played well this year, but they’re not performing like they did during all the championship years, so crowds have been sparse and full of impassioned ennui, if such a thing can exist, the feeling surely being easy to observe. But today, of all days, is the most fruitful of the season. Hardly an empty spot anywhere. The crowd constantly murmuring as the King awaits his chance.
His name is announced and a trumpet fanfare blows the crowd into a frenzy, a dizzying sight for an opposing player, but the King deserves his crown today. He wears it proudly.
But out on the mound, old John Clarkson has designs on quieting the noise, of bringing the fervor back to its rightful place. Johnny Boy barely pretends to conceal his thoughts, raring back and throwing the blindingly white sphere at the King’s left shin, a sure-fire way to slow down the locomotive even if you had to let him get on the track.
But the King refuses to take his base. He won’t hear of it. For a moment, he looks hell-bent on rushing Clarkson. But he unclenches his fists and grabs his prized lumber from the ground. He urges Clarkson to try again, to be more sensible, to give him something he can hit.
The King squares his shoulders as a fresh pitch comes his way. He twists his torso and bends his knees deeply and—he bunts!
***
Christopher Stolle has been published by Indiana University Press, Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra, Coaches Choice, “Tipton Poetry Journal,” “Flying Island,” “Last Stanza Poetry Journal,” “The Alembic,” “Sheepshead Review,” and “Plath Poetry Project,” among others. He lives in Richmond, Indiana.
