The Ghost of Silent Smith, An uncanny tale by C. Franklin Miller.
Silent Smith was dead to begin with, of that, there could be no
doubt. The story of his tragic end was featured in the first column of
every sporting sheet in the country, and was officially verified in due course by
the physician, the coroner, and the clergyman. Furthermore, the tragedy itself
was visioned by some twenty thousand eyes. They all saw the blinding speed of
the ball as it left the pitcher's hand. They saw the melancholy indifference of
Silence as he stood at the plate. They saw the ball crush into his
right temple, and they saw him fall. Some said that he wanted to
die, but that is beside the question of one thing. We are sure
Silent Smith was dead. I myself saw his corpse two days later. It
was laid out in somber black. His coffin was black, his suit was
black, and black was his bat weighing tie. Black was his favorite color.
It harmonized perfectly with the gloom of his disposition, and to it he
clung consistent in death as an active life. The time of his death is
likewise certain. It occurred at precisely twenty two minutes after three Eastern Standard time.
That fact I have verified. It is important. Had it occurred five
hours later, there would be nothing unusual to tell about. Silent Smith would
have been duly buried, mourned, and finally forgotten, except for the brilliant
record, which will always stand as a monument to his pitching skill. As
it was, he died at the time stated, and his corpse was in
the hands of the coroner. Exactly one hour later. That same hour found
him staging the most remarkable comeback in the history of the national game, and
this at a point three thousand miles away. I make that statement with a
full knowledge of the actual facts. As a member of Johnny Morgan's Bears that
year, I saw the weird occurrence with my own eyes. It happened out
on the coast in the presence of some eight thousand fans. Those in the
assembled throng who knew Silent and his mannerisms could only stare and wonder. At
the time. They had no knowledge of his death. I had, so
had the rest of the players on the Bears bench. A telegram from the
east had borne the tragic news that message shed a ghostly light on the astounding
phenomenon, and lent to the affair a vague tinge of plausibility. However,
amazing understand I do not deny the evidence of written records that would be useless.
I know that talkative Andy Gregg was on the mound for the Bears that
day. I realized that he was credited with the victory which brought to the
club the first pennant we ever flaunted along the coast, and I agree that
he deserved the credit. For all practical purposes, the voluble lad had labored
nine full innings, giving one of the most sensational exhibitions of hurling ever witnessed.
Nevertheless, I insist that Silent Smith pitched the Bears into that pennant as
surely as his death occurred two hours before the game was called. Let us
see, Silent Smith had been our twirling ace the greater part of the season.
Anyone who ever saw him in action will tell you he was a pitching
marvel. He could work in turn every fourth day, to relief duty in
between when called upon, and still win the vast majority of his games.
Notwithstanding his proclivity for hard work, he was strangely lacking in enthusiasm, and
possessed no more sociability than an ancient tombstone. Mind, I do not profess
to have any firsthand knowledge as to the sociability of a tombstone. My head
never rested within the shadow of one. It may be that their communion is
confined solely to the realm of departed spirits, but as far as the human
eye can see, they are extremely unsociable objects. And so was Silent.
I well remember the veil of gloom which accompanied his advent into our spring training
camp. He came wandering out upon the field like a lost sheep, trailing
a big black bat. The most dismal looking rookie I ever laid eyes upon.
His face was a masterpiece of dark despair, sketched in deep, weary
lines, ill fitted to carry a smile. Shrouded in sackcloth, he could
have done justice to the role of chief mourner at anybody's funeral. The Chief
had been busy all morning looking over a number of promising young pitchers whose efforts
would have ruined the disposition of any trainer. We'd been hanging their offerings all
over the park. Not one of them had enough stuff to last in a
triple A league. The Chief's ire had been mounting accordingly, and the sight
of Silent gazing dismally on had no soothing effect on his temper. Say Smith,
He growled, You're supposed to be a pitcher, not a monument.
Snap out of it. Let's see your stuff. Silence produced a ball from
his hip pocket and nursed it. Sadly. For a moment or two,
I thought he was going to cry. Instead, he answered the Chief in
a very meek and tired voice. Yet, yes, sir, mister Morkan,
some of us may have grinned in secret, but no one laughed outright.
We knew the Chief too well. He was fairly boiling inwardly, and
the lid was due to pop at any moment. Silence, however, paid
absolutely no attention to him. After uttering those surprising words, he ignored the
Chief completely. Slowly, he made his way out onto the vacant mound and
started a slow wind up. The Chief swore that this latest edition must have
served a term on the box of a funeral cab. Slow motioned or not,
the lad was uncommonly graceful for a South Paul that we could use.
But what he did to the ball. No one ever knew. The thing
he threw with that left arm of his was the biggest puzzle I ever stood
up against. As if encased in gobs of gloom, the ball came floating
up to the plate and dropped dejectedly into the catcher's mit. It was more
like a sigh than any soundless thing I can think of. It eluded our
bats like a soaring phantom, and had us doubled in knots and our efforts
to deal it a solid blow. Within fifteen minutes, the chief knew that
he had a marvel in toe. I could see him melt as he watched
the lad's solemn performance, and his face began to beam. All right,
buddy, he sang out genially. But what do you call it? This
time? Silent made no answer. At least he did not speak. He
merely raised his shoulders and sighed a long, deep sigh. That settled it.
The sigeball, someone suggested, and the sieball it was. Henceforth,
the boy could likewise hit. Not that he ever set the league on fire
as a slugger, but he revealed a deadly punch with his big black bat,
which made him a prince among pinch hitters. This uncanny ability of his
and a pinch was first demonstrated in our opening game of the season. Up
until the eighth inning, his batting performance had naturally classed him as another weak
hitting pitcher. He had struck out on two occasions and had raised a puny
fly in a third attempt. The fourth time he stepped into the box,
however, the winning run was resting on third, and he brought it in
with a pretty single. How he did it was as much of a mystery
as his syeball. His woeful stance at the plate certainly would never have labeled
him a batter of any quality. The pitcher he presented as he clung to
his big black bat was one of utter hopelessness and might have been captioned the
end. Yet in a pinch he could deliver. We simply had to accept.
Silent as he was, there was no change him. His actions were
entirely too unexpected and unnatural to be fathomed. He could strike a batter out
and look painfully unhappy over the deed. He could win a game with a
timely drive and go into mourning. His normal atmosphere was gloom deep and mysterious,
and it never varied. With our first swing around the circuit. The
fame of Silent Smith began to spread. That left arm of his slow balled
its way into the hearts of thousands of fans along the coast. The wild
enthusiasm with which his appearance in the box was greeted amounted to a mania,
and his side ball became the topic of household discussions. There could be no
doubt as to his popularity. He was the biggest drawing card in baseball anywhere
at the time. It may have been the sad appeal of his miserable existence
which intrigued. It may have been the veil of mystery shrouding his character which
fascinated. But win or lose, he was idolized. Behind his spectacular hurling.
We climbed to heights we had never known before. The completion of three
fourths of our schedule found us treading closely on the heels of the flying Leafs,
who had been perched proudly at the top all season. Small wonder that
the town went baseball mad for the first time in our history. We had
pennant visions. Then came the setback, and our visions went to glimmering.
Silent Smith was drafted. With the spreading of the news, a howl of
disapproval went up from along the coast. From three states came the same cry,
crooked baseball, and the very popularity of this sport itself was threatened.
Outside efforts were made to have Silent recalled, but the trade had been consummated.
Our ace was lost. With the passing of Silent, the Bears fell
upon evil days. We developed a losing streak which threatened to force us out
of the running. Even the despised Bisons made a clean swee of a four
game series, and a pall of gloom spread o'er the camp. Both the
press and the paying public added to our misery. Only a flash, the
Bears have hit their stride. That was the consensus. Wherever fans collected the
thing began to peeve the Chief, and in an effort to redeem the club,
he went out into the sticks and brought back Andy Gregg. No doubt
you've heard of Andy Gregg. He was known as the gamest man in baseball.
But when the Chief pulled him out of nowhere, he was just a
big, green, awkward, hitless wonder. He couldn't bat, and his
fielding was worse. He had just two outstanding accomplishments. He could pitch and
he could talk. It was hard to tell in which he excelled. Regardless
of his ability, he labored under difficulties from the very first. A man
of lesser carriage would have wilted under the strain whenever he hove in sight is
the pitcher for the day? An unreasonable chorus of booze greeted him, followed
by the sing song for Silent Smith. Not that he was unpopular, His
spirit was really admired. It was the public's method of voicing its outraged feelings
over the loss of an idol. They resented the release of silent and called
for him as only a rabid baseball mob can call. The management was their
target. Andy was only the goat. The lad simply laughed and went on
pitching. But behind his fine indifference there lurked the ambition to stifle that cry
for silent Smith. Secretly, he accepted it as a reflection on his own
ability, and fought courageously to change the tune. He fairly talked the team
out of its woeful slump and hurled it back to its place in the sun.
When the Leafs again invaded our territory for a final series of three,
we stood within half game of being deadlocked for first place. It was the
end of our playing schedule, and things did not look as rosy as might
be supposed. Our pitching staff had cracked Talkative and he was the only dependable
hurler we had left after a grueling month of struggle to maintain our position as
runner up. But Andy was in splendid form. He could still chatter away
like an eight day clock, and that was the sign to him. Was
given the mound in the first of that deciding series, and he won.
Four pitchers were hammered unmercifully in the second, and we lost again. We
were trailing by a narrow margin. But who was there to hold the enemy
in check? Husky Harris was down with tonsillitis, Lefty Lefferts had a broken
thumb. Curley Weinert's arm was sore from too much use. As for the
rest, but what's the use In that hour of need? We were all
wishing for an iron arm, the arm of silent smith. Even the Chief
had his former ace in mind. He as much as said so afterward at
the time. However, there was only one thing he could do, and
he did it. Talkative Andy was given the assignment. The lad was ready
advertise the fact with his ceaseless jabber. We got him going, Johnny,
he kept repeating to the chief winners, come in, the leaves are fallen.
Just keep your eye on the tree. We were all gathered in the
dugout awaiting the call of the gong, that peculiar hush which seizes a crowd
immediately before playing time had already descended. Out on the sun swept field,
a number of white wings were putting the finishing touches on the sparkling diamond.
Behind the plate stood one armed Jimmy Flynn, wielding a megaphone. His booming
voice could be heard above the buzzing silence crying the batteries. Jimmy got no
further in his announcement than the name of Gregg when a spontaneous roar rolled out
of the stand and completely submerged the rest. It was the howl of the
pack for its idol unsportsmanlike. Yes, but Andy only chuckled. Can you
beat it, Johnny? He chirped, They'd rather have them morgue out there
than a live one. We'll bury that bird right now. Come on,
you cub, watch my smoke. And he trotted out onto the field amid
a shower of booze. And he had plenty of smoke and displayed it in
his own awkward style. All through the inning that call for silent Smith went
on with varying crescendos, But the nerve racking Din had as much effect on
the spirit of Andy as watter does on the back of a duck. He
worked along methodically and effectively, setting the enemy down on exactly six pitched balls.
Small wonder that the lad was beaming when he climbed down into the pit
after the last out had been called. He knew he was right, and
he stayed right for seven innings. He went on talking and pitching, waxing
more loquacious as the game progressed. There was no reason for acting otherwise.
His smoke ball was working nicely. It went whizzing past their bats with monotonous
regularity. They couldn't even see it. Two hits were all he allowed along
that entire stretch. Apparently, the it meant nothing to the mob. They
were entirely engrossed in their favorite pastime. They seemed to take a fiendish delight
in heckling the club individually and collectively for the release of a star. If
we won, we were simply playing in luck. If we lost, well,
we deserved to. They told us so in as many words, and
they howled for silent Smith. Andy still held his temper. His control was
marvelous. He showed no signs of wavering under the strain. As he came
trailing into the dugout for our turnip bat in the eighth he was chattering away
like a magpie. I told you we'd bury that melancholy bird. He told
the Chief. He's got one foot in the grave right now, and when
I'm done, that bunch of fatheads up there will be thrown in the dirt.
Twas ever, thus, Johnny the Chief's face was uncommonly somber as he
listened to Andy's chatter. In his hand there fluttered the familiar blue of a
telegram. Without a word, he handed it over. Andy read the news,
and his countenance fell. Silent Smith was dead. That was the brake
which went against him. From that moment on, Andy's starr began to fade.
I'm sorry, I said what I did? He murmured, I was
only kidding. I didn't know about this. Johnny, of course not answered
the chief, perking up. Don't let it trouble you. Now, all
you've got to think about is the winning of this ball game. Come on,
now, let's go boys. But Andy was troubled. Nevertheless, his
helpful chatter ceased, and that was the sign. When we again took the
field after a fruitless inning, it was quite evident that he was not himself.
Even the returned call for Silent Smith seemed to irritate. He dug into
the dirt with his spiked shoes. He pulled up blades of grass and started
chewing. He moistened his fingers against the sod. He did a number of
things which were not his wont but which strangely enough, had characterized the pitching
of Silent Smith from behind the plate. The umpire was calling for action,
so was the crowd, and Andy finally got going. That final inning was
a nightmare. Andy walked the first man up, and a low rumble of
dismay swept to the field. The next ball he grooved, and Sammy Dawes
dropped it over second for a pretty single. The rumble spread to a roar.
Andy spat savagely into his glove and glared up at the stand. That
persistent cry for silent Smith had finally penetrated. The lad was riled. The
crowd saw his action an uncorked a veritable flood of jeers, as if the
pennant wouldn't have been clinched ere this had silent been retained. Now, look
what's happening? Maybe they were right? Who knows. In a rage,
Andy sped another over the plate, only to see it turned into a tantalizing
bunt. In his clumsy effort to field the ball, he stumbled and fell.
The ball rolled clear. I pounced upon it from my position at third
and kept the Leafs from scoring. But the bases were full and no one
out, and Andy our only hope. By this time, some eight thousand
lusty throats were raising the very Yes, indeed, they were going to that
extremity in their frenzied howl to take him out, and their reasonless demand for
silent Smith. Bedlam had broken loose. I handed the ball to Andy and
begged him to take his time. It isn't fair, ken, he exploded,
wrathfully. What had I to do with the loss? Of Silent I
ask you. I assured him that every member of that howling mob belonged in
a padded cell, and added a word or two about our pennant chances.
The latter had a sobering effect. Andy took a time, saving hitch in
his belt and seemed to settle down. But the Leafs were not to be
denied. They pounded out two successive singles and scored as many runs. The
stand was fairly rocking, with the din of stamping feet and shouting voices.
Above it all could be heard the name of Silent Smith. But Andy no
longer heeded. His rage had apparently subsided. He stood quietly in the center
of the diamond and watched Big Jess Winners carry his three ninety bat to the
plate. Here was the biggest batting menace in the league, and it required
a world of courage to face it. For a moment, Andy never moved,
and then he did a characteristic thing. He started talking. He told
Big Jess to go get a plank. To me, it sounded as if
the bantering tone were forced, but my heart warmed at the sight of the
lad fighting to regain his stride. At a boy shouted Tommy Leach from second,
make him hit it, Andy, We're all out here. Andy made
no response, and we knew that his confidence was not at par. He
took one glance at the runner on third and suddenly let go with blinding speed.
Jest swung with all his power, and the ball snapped back at Andy
like a rocket. Instinctively, Andy raised his arms, but the ball sped
through his guard and landed with a sickening thud. The lad crumpled up like
a rag. The clamor of the crowd was instantly choked as they came to
their feet in a startled wave and stood staring at the motionless form in the
center of the diamond. I thought the boy was dead. His face was
pasty and his lips bloodless. Apparently his heart had ceased to beat. His
eyes were open and staring with that fixed expression commonly associated with sudden death.
For ten minutes we worked over his lifeless form. The only perceptible sign of
animation was a faint fluttering of the pulse in his wrist, which occurred at
intervals of about a minute. The condition was strange enough to make even the
club physician look puzzled. Then, with surprising force. Andy's heart began to
pound along like a trip hammer. A patch of color spread in his pallid
cheeks. Another minute and his eyelids fluttered weakly. His broad chest heaved,
and he sighed with glassy eyes. He stared at the anxious group which circled
him. His brow was furrowed, as if he were unable to comprehend the
meaning of it all. He attempted to climb to his feet, but got
no further than his knees. Two of the boys caught him by the arms
and started to lead him to the clubhouse. He would not have it.
He shipped them off and swayed uncertainly into the pitcher's box. A gasp of
astonishment went up from the crowd. No one had ever dreamed that he could
resume play. It was unbelievable. They stared at him in silent all,
a mute tribute to the sheer grit of the man, and then a roar
of admiration proclaimed a new idol. Silent Smith was dead, Sure your fit
buddy, inquired the anxious chief. For a moment, there was no answer.
Andy turned a haggard face and gazed at the chief with strangely sad eyes.
He looked as if all the troubles of the world were resting on his
shoulders. Then Andy's all right. The words sounded queerly, detached. The
voice was toneless. The chief shook his head and slowly left the field.
He was going to take a chance, he had to. He sent two
of the boys out to the bullpen to warm up, however, in case
Andy couldn't make the grade. The crowd settled down in the stand and started
buzzing like so many bees. Nothing like it had ever been seen. A
blow like that would have crippled the spirit of most men. But there was
Andy willing to go on. Was he able? All eyes were glued on
the lad as he started digging a hole with his spikes in front of the
rubber. He ignored everything else completely. That the team was on the small
end of a three to nothing score, and that a runner was waiting on
every sack, just itching to swell the lead was of no importance. He
scraped, and he kicked at the dirt with a slow, measured effort,
as if the digging of holes was an art, All this with hanging head
and downcast eyes. At last, the hall was perfect, and he picked
up his glove. To me, it looked as if he were stolen a
daze. He appeared to be uncertain of every movement, as if he were
unable to decide just what to do next. All right, Andy, I
inquired, doubtfully, handing him the ball. He made no response. He
ignored my query as completely as he had everything else. Turning his neck,
he started a slow, graceful wind up, every motion of which was perfectly
familiar. Deliberately methodically, he threw five balls over the plate, and then
waited for the batter to take his stand, and he did not utter a
sound. I shall not attempt to explain it. The facts are all I
can deal with. And the fact in this instance was that Andy threw those
five balls with his left arm, not in a ridiculously awkward manner, but
with perfect ease. Furthermore, his style was identical with that of Silent Smith,
and Silent Smith was dead. But this was no time for theorizing.
The batter was set, the umpire was waiting. We fell into position,
and play was resumed. Andy's amazing change of pace certainly worked havoc with the
enemy bats. Lanky Andrews stood up to the plate like a statue, and
watched three perfectly good strikes float across his bat never left his shoulder. Chubby
Wilson did a little better. He at least swung. In fact, he
swung three times, and then followed his lanky teammate back to the pit for
the second out. Pinch hitter Collins nipped the ball for a puny fly,
which Jordan our catcher smothered in his big mit, stranding all three of the
runners who jammed the bags. And the ball that did it was the sideball.
The wonder of the thing held the crowd spellbound. They watched Andy's weird
performance with gaping astonishment. Had the lad changed his style, could he have
perfected that famous delivery in secret practice? Had he been holding out for the
past few weeks, thinking to spring a surprise At the psychological moment, Questions
were flying fast, answers were scarce. Had they known of the fate of
Silent Smith, their thoughts might have taken a more gruesome channel. Had they
read that telegram from the East, they might have agreed that Silent was answering
their call at last. As it was, they could only stare and wonder.
When we again trailed into the dugout we found the chief in earnest consultation
with doctor Barrett, the club physician, the word was spread that andyby left
alone, and he was. He came shuffling off the field with hanging head
and settled down into a listless attitude at one end of the bench. Doctor
Barrett studied his drooping figure for a moment or two and finally shook his head.
So did we all if the dead can come back to any form.
Silent Smith was sitting there in his accustomed place, radiating as much gloom as
he ever had. But the most unnatural twist of the whole affair was still
in the making. Puggy Airs lined a pretty single into right to start our
half of the ninth, and the crowd started pulling for us. At last,
Tommy Leach pushed Puggy around with a well placed bunt and beat out the
throat of first. Both of them advanced a bag. When Marty mc gowan
walked and the basses were full. All we needed now was someone with a
punch, someone who could uncork a drive that would sweep the bags and tie
the count at three all Andy was the next man up, and everybody was
looking for a pinch hitter. With victory at stake, it would not do
to take a chance on the hitless wonder, but the chief must have been
playing a hunch. He never said a word when Andy climbed out of the
pit and surveyed the bat rack with melancholy eyes. Mine was the only black
stick in the lot, and Andy picked it up amid a silence as dead
as a graveyard. He dragged the bat up to the plate. Every movement
he made was followed by the crowd with straining eyes and bated breath. The
moment was fraught with something beyond their knowledge, and the mystery of the thing
held them fascinated. A newspaper photographer took up his stand along the foul line
and focused his camera on Andy as he entered the box. If Andy saw
him, he made no sign. His eyes were glued to the ground.
Dolefully, he sidled around to the left of the plate, grasped his bat
with a weary effort, and stood waiting. Blondie vanced. The opposing pitcher
was visibly shaken, and he had always been a right handed batter, and
to see him fall into that woeful left handed stance with a big black bat
was like looking at a ghost. For a moment, Blondie stared and Andy
gazed sadly back. The umpire brought Blondie back to earth, and he finally
started his windup. That was his last pitching effort of the season. The
ball went sailing toward the plate with absolutely nothing on it. Andy connected with
a resounding crash, and three runs came trailing in. The score was tied.
While Andy, with the winning run, was rounding third. He staggered
the distance between third and home. His feet were dragging as if loaded with
lead. He managed to make the plate with the deciding tally and then collapsed
like an empty sack. It was fully half an hour before Andy recovered and
started jabbering away like the lad we knew. The doctor took him in hand,
and Andy was puzzled over the discovery that he himself had finished the game.
His last recollection was that of being hit by a batted ball. I
might add that a picture of Andy starting the ball on that home run journey
appeared in the Daily Mail issued on September eleventh, nineteen twelve, and created
much discussion throughout the country. While somewhat blurry, Andy's face is sufficiently clear
to be identified. Covering his face like a veil is a misty something which
closely resembles the melancholy features of Silent Smith. And Silent Smith was dead end
of the ghost of Silent Smith.