The GHOST and Charlie Dusenberry

PG. 2 TGACD R. ZEIS

It was the sounds and smells of the game that always excited him. Spring meant more than the return of warm weather, flowers, and picnics. Spring meant the return of baseball! For Gus Dusenberry the sharp crack of bats against baseballs and the sweet smell of his leather glove were all that was needed for Gus to get excited about playing his favorite sport.

Baseball was a part of Gus’ life for as long as he could remember. And now on this spring day of 1932, Gus’ love of baseball – and his considerable skill at the game – had landed him a paying job. After being the captain of his New York City championship Jamaica High School team, Gus was asked to play for the Albany Senators. The Senators were a new minor league team that played in the International League. The team was made up of new and veteran ballplayers who hoped to catch the eye of a major league scout. Gus had high hopes as he prepared to play in his first pro game.

The tall, slim New Yorker was a natural at first base. During warm-ups, he routinely snapped up balls thrown to him in the dirt. Gus’ brown eyes followed the baseball wherever it went – because that was the thing to do. His high school coach had drilled many pieces of useful information into him including, “never take your eyes off the ball! Do that and you’ll never get embarrassed by getting beaned.” A wry smile formed on Gus’ lips as he remembered that piece of sage advice. No getting embarrassed this day!

Puffy white clouds moved slowly across the April sky allowing the sun only momentary guest appearances. When the sun did get the chance, however, it lit the small ballpark up like a Norman Rockwell print. Fans huddled together in the still cool air to witness this rite of spring, a home season opener! The grass almost glowed green in appreciation of the warmth cast upon it when the clouds parted enough to allow the sun to peek through.

The visiting team from Scranton, Pennsylvania occupied the third-base dugout on this opening day. Gus peered across the field into the dugout and tried to will the first batter to appear. The umpires, wearing their dark blue suits and bow ties were already at their positions around the diamond.

“Hello, Blue,” Gus said to the ump near first base.

The umpire, a man in his late 30’s, turned to look at the skinny kid. At first, the umpire just stared. Then, like the sun that peeked out from behind a cloud, a smile broke out from a weathered face. “Hello, rookie.”

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He knows I’m a rookie thought Gus. But then he too smiled. That’s right, I’m a rookie mused Gus. A pro rookie, by God!

Just then the P.A. crackled like someone was dragging the microphone across sandpaper. A tinny voice then welcomed everyone to the ballpark. “Batting first for Scranton, second baseman Jody Blair, number four.”

Gus Dusenberry pounded his glove with his bare right hand. At last, the game was starting! At last, his dream was coming true!

Blair was a right-handed batter so Gus automatically stepped a few feet to his right away from first base and then crouched into his ready position. Albany’s pitcher, Mickey Davis, started his windup and fired the first pitch of the season.

That moment would be etched into Gus’ memory forever. Gus heard Davis grunt as he let go of the ball. There was a hiss as the white sphere cut the air and then an explosive bang as the ball met the catcher’s glove.

“Steeerike one!’ bellowed the home plate umpire.

The packed crowd in the small stadium roared its approval. Spring was officially underway.

Smoothing the dirt with his feet, Gus readied himself again as Davis threw his second pitch. This time it was a curveball that broke over the inside corner of home plate. But Blair, a seasoned minor leaguer, wasn’t fooled. Blair swung hard and the sound of bat hitting baseball echoed throughout the stadium. The ball took two hops and blurred its way down the third baseline.

Gus thought it was going to be a sure base hit. But suddenly there was Clyde. Clyde, of course, nicknamed “Glide,” Burrows was another rookie from New Jersey. All five-feet-eight inches of him laid-out flat in mid-air. Clyde’s glove somehow intercepted the missile disguised as a baseball. A collective “WOW!” rolled from the mouths of the stunned crowd.

But Clyde had not won this skirmish yet. Blair was going all out as he flew down the first baseline. Gus could hear the runner’s staccato exhalations as he neared the bag.

Knowing he didn’t have much time, Clyde rose only to his knees before throwing as hard as he could to first base. The throw was straight as an arrow but would fall several feet short.

With everything happening so fast, instinct and training took over Gus’ next moves. Putting his left foot on first base, the six-foot-three inch New Yorker leaned towards Clyde’s on-

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coming throw. Gus was nearly flat on the ground doing a split with his right hand extended. The ball bounced a good three feet short of Gus’ glove. Just as the runner’s foot slammed down on the bag, Gus snatched the ball out of the dirt. The crowd knew it was a close call for the umpire.

“Yer out!” growled the ump.

As the home crowd screamed its approval of the call, the runner let the umpire know he disagreed. Blair, the runner, immediately went toe-to-toe with the ump. Scranton’s manager joined the “discussion” and was quickly thrown out of the game after questioning the ump’s heritage.

Boo’s rolled out of the stands as the opposing manager finally gave up his protest and headed back to his dugout.

The top of the first inning ended quietly with a strikeout and a long fly out. Gus Dusenberry ran to the first base dugout and dropped his glove on the steps that led down to the bench. “Glide” Burrows slapped Gus on the back and offered a “nice grab” smile. Gus smiled back but found he was too nervous to sit down on the bench next to Glide. He paced the length of the dugout back and forth. More than once Gus stopped and looked over the team’s starting line-up card that hung from a nail on the wall. It was a matter of reassurance for Gus to see his name penciled into the number six position in the lineup.

“Hey rookie!” snapped veteran outfielder Stan Pike. “Sit down will ya? Yer gonna be plumb tuckered out by the time you have to hit.” The comment drew chuckles from the older players and a sheepish grin from Gus. Gus, however, was so excited he could have walked from Albany to Baghdad and back without burning an ounce of energy. All he wanted to do was get up to bat. Nothing else mattered – not his pacing up and down the length of the dugout – not the stares and smirks of his teammates. Gus wanted to grab a bat and stand at home plate for the first time as a pro.

The crowd’s yell of approval drew Gus’ attention back to the field. “Glide” Burrows had drawn a lead-off walk against Scranton’s pitcher. He had a big grin on his face as he trotted to first base. His first pro-at-bat was a success.

Next up was Albany’s second baseman, Manny Flanagan. A short, wiry second-year player. Flanagan’s at-bat turned into an adventure as two pitches were high and tight knocking the small man to the ground.

“Way to stay loose, Manny!” laughed a teammate from the dugout. There was no smile, however, from Manny who climbed to his feet brushing away the dirt from his wool uniform. Even though the pitcher’s next toss was also a bit high and tight, Manny swung at it anyway and

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hit a harmless blooper to the third baseman who caught it in foul territory. The disappointed crowd rained a few boo’s on Manny as he returned to the dugout.

One out.

Albany’s third hitter, Danny Blinn, and the team’s cleanup batter, Stan Pike, both drew walks from the struggling Scranton pitcher. The bases were now loaded.

Gus watched “Doogie” McDougal, the number five hitter, walk to home plate. He hesitated a moment before selecting his bat from the rack inside the dugout and then climbed the stairs onto the field. As he walked into the on-deck circle, Gus could feel the crowd’s excitement begin to build. The beauty of baseball shone brighter than the reappearing sun at that moment. With the bases loaded the crowd would react to each pitch like an attempt to start a reluctant car engine. You never knew when a turn of the key (or pitch) would finally allow the engine to roar to life!

McDougal pawed the dirt and adjusted his cap in anticipation of the first pitch to him. Gus knew what kind of pressure Doogie was under…so much so he momentarily forgot his excitement. Doogie had confided in him that this was probably going to be a make or break season for him. An Ohio farm boy, Doogie had bounced around the minor leagues for three years and never batted higher than .240. Another mediocre year and Doogie felt no scout would ever show interest in him.

The first pitch to Doogie was a fastball that whistled over the outside corner of the plate for strike one. The next pitch nearly got away from the Scranton catcher as the curveball fell short of the plate. The catcher made a nice block and kept the ball in front of him. All three runners had to return to their bases.

Boo’s erupted from the stands when the third pitch knocked Doogie to the ground. Doogie smiled as he dusted the dirt off himself. With the count two balls and one strike he felt he had the advantage over the pitcher. But another curve ball found the inside corner of the plate and the count evened at two balls and two strikes. Pressure switched from the pitcher to Doogie who had not taken one swing yet.

A little old lady just behind Gus was standing and yelling encouragement to Doogie. “You can do it! That pitcher got nothin’!” The pressure ramped up even more when Doogie had to fall to the ground again as a fastball nearly hit him in the head.

“Don’t you hurt one of my boys!” yelled the little old lady. Gus smiled at her as he continued taking his warm-up swings.

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With the crowd at its peak frenzy, the pitcher leaned down to peer at his catcher for a sign. After agreeing on what to throw, and the runners dancing off their bases, the pitcher stood up and moved his hands into a ready position. Doogie nervously swung his bat back and forth. Gus could tell from the on-deck circle Doogie was in doubt as to what was headed his way.

“HIT IT!” cried the little old lady.

The pitch was another fastball and it started to sail high. It would have been ball four except that Doogie chose to chase it. He missed. Strike three.

“Why did you swing at that? You idiot!” This came from the little old lady who a minute ago was on Doogie’s side. Colorful language rained down on Doogie as he made his way back to the dugout. Doogie kept his head down and never looked up. His season was off to a very bad start.

The noise, the bad language, the pressure hit Gus square in the face as he realized that now he was the one everyone was depending on to succeed. Just a month ago, the only real pressure Gus had faced was passing a math exam. How things had changed! Gus was still taking this all in when the home plate umpire shook him out of his thoughts with a loud, “batter up!”

Gus took one final practice swing and turned once more to look at the crowd. The little old lady was now looking at him. What she was saying was drowned out by the now even noisier crowd. He did lock eyes with a little blond-headed boy who was sporting an Albany baseball cap. The boy put his hands together like he was praying. Gus thought to himself that a prayer was the right thing to have right now.

The P.A. box crackled to life again. “Now batting, Gus Dusenberry, number 23.” The packed throng let out a roar and then settled a bit. You could sense that they were wondering just who this number 23 was. But as Gus settled into the left-hand batter’s box, the crowd noise faded for him. He was left with his thoughts.

Uncertainty, even a bit a fear suddenly replaced the excitement of playing in his first pro game. Gus had always thought his first at-bat would be a joyous thing. But, now, with his new friend, Glide grinning at him from third base, things were different. People depended on him. It wasn’t just about himself anymore. Like Doogie, Gus was under pressure.

Pitch number one from the wild Scranton pitcher screamed at Gus’ head. He dove out of the way as the catcher reached up to grab the errant throw. “Man, that would have hurt!” smiled the catcher. Gus got off the ground and took his place in the batter’s box once again.

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“Hey rookie!” yelled Glide from third base. “Stay loose!” He followed that with a big grin. Gus wondered if the grin was to help calm him, or if it was a “glad it’s you at-bat and not me.” Pitch two was another wild one. It forced Gus to back away as the ball nearly clipped his right knee. Another chuckle escaped from behind the catcher’s mask.

“Ball two!” exclaimed the ump.

The crowd yelled encouragement with the count now two balls and no strikes. Two more balls thought Gus, and I get an easy walk forcing in a run. Easy walk? Gus called time out and stepped out of the batter’s box. Was this what he wanted? A walk? No, he told himself. He was here for more than just a walk. He was not a quitter.

With more determination, Gus stepped back into the batter’s box and readied himself. Pitch number three hurtled at him forcing another retreat. But this time the pitch was a curveball and broke across the plate.

“Strike one!”

Gus mentally chastised himself. He’d seen curve balls before. He’d also been hit before. While it wasn’t a pleasant experience, it was better than bailing out. He moved back into the box and readied again.

“Watch it rookie!” sneered the catcher. “The next pitch will be a fastball right at your head!”

He’s playing a head game, thought Gus. “Well, if you have any guts, you’ll throw a fastball.” He aimed that at the catcher.

Gus dug his left foot even deeper into the brown dirt. He gripped the bat tighter than he ever had done before. The roaring crowd faded. It was time.

Scranton’s pitcher did throw a fastball. It was a little inside and would have probably been ball three. But, the catcher never got the ball. Gus Dusenberry’s swing was perfect and the loud crack of bat hitting baseball rang in the ballpark.

As the ball lifted higher and higher towards the right-field bleachers Gus knew it would soon be a souvenir. Rounding first base as the ball cleared the wall and bounced off a wooden seat, the sun broke through the clouds warming the ballpark again.

“A grand slam!” screeched the little old lady. “A grand slam!” She turned to the little blond-headed boy and said, “I knew he’d do it!”

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Gus Dusenberry’s trip around the bases seemed to last forever. He’d never doubt himself again and never settle for less. In fact, he would not ever associate himself with anyone who would quit on themselves. It was a promise he made to himself as he finally crossed home plate.

Spring was wonderful!

Gus was still smiling when he finally opened his eyes. Confusion rolled over him as he found himself laying on a bed surrounded by several people. One minute he was playing baseball and now…this?

“Welcome home, Gus,” said his wife, Norma, as she leaned down to give him a gentle kiss. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Gus was speechless. As he sat up in the bed he tried to come to terms with what he saw. Friends, relatives, and of course, his wife, stood around him with warm smiles on their faces.

How could this be, Gus thought? They were all supposed to be dead.