Free Hunting a Detroit Tiger by Troy Soos

“Used to be a player didn’t think about nuthin’ but baseball.” His dim eyes grew dreamy, and I thought he was about to launch into stories of the “old days.”
    As much as I would have liked to hear them, I realized I might be able to direct his recollections to a more useful purpose. “You were playing about the same time as Emmett Siever,” I said. “Did you know him at all?”
    Jennings nodded. “We were teammates once. Came to mind when I read about you killing him.”
    “I didn’t . . .” I dropped my protest when I realized Jennings wasn’t listening anyway.
    “My first season,” he went on, “with Louisville, 1891. A bum team, no pitching staff. Same as I got now—how the hell am I supposed to win a pennant without a goddamn pitching staff?”
    “Got to have pitchers,” I said. “So what about Emmett Siever?”
    “He was an outfielder. But we already had a solid outfield: Patsy Donovan, Farmer Weaver, and Chicken Wolf. Siever hardly got into a game all year. So he did his playing at night—whorehouses and saloons. From what I heard, he’d always been like that—knew the red-light districts better than he knew the ballparks. And him with a wife and baby girl at home. Shameful, if you ask me.” He paused for more whiskey. “Patsy Donovan, he turned into a fine hitter. And his little brother—Wild Bill—was about the best pitcher I ever had. Couldn’t have won them pennants without him. Him and George Mullin. If Navin would get me pitchers like Donovan and Mullin, I’d win him a goddamn pennant. But can’t—”
    “Can’t do it without pitchers,” I finished. “You remember anything else about Emmett Siever?”
    “We never played on the same team after that one year, but we saw each other from time to time. Even met his wife once—sweetest little lady you ever saw. Shame what happened.”
    “You mean about him running around on her?”
    “I mean about her dying. In childbirth, trying to give him a son. Her and the baby both. After that, Siever changed his ways for a while, but then took to feeling sorry for himself and went back to whoring and boozing.”
    When Jennings took another pull at the bottle, some of it leaked down his chin. Embarrassed for him, I turned my head and saw a foursome of Tigers get out of the elevator. Dutch Leonard was one of them, with Chick Fogarty on his heels. Leonard pulled up short, elbowed Fogarty, and nodded in my direction. They probably thought I was trying to play teacher’s pet in talking to the manager. After a lingering look at us, they went into the hotel dining room.
    Trying to elicit a little more information from Jennings, I asked, “Siever was never active in unionizing back then?”
    “Hell no,” he snorted. “Barstools and bordellos, that’s where he was active. And sometimes on the ballfield. There wasn’t much union talk anymore anyway by the time I came up to the bigs. Players League had just folded, you know.”
    I murmured that I did know.
    “Damn fools, if you ask me. Monte Ward and Tim Keefe were the ones behind it. Complaining about the reserve clause and saying ballplayers were treated like ‘slaves.’ We made damn good salaries for ‘slaves’—hell of a lot more than you could ever make in the coal mines.” Jennings coughed, long and hard. After he caught his breath again, he said, “Baseball is the way it is, and you don’t go trying to change it—that only causes trouble and nobody likes trouble. Keep your nose clean, and you’re set for life. After you stop playing, you can be a coach. Then, if you got brains, a manager. And—” His face furrowed, and I could tell that he was wondering what came after managing. “All I need is a couple good pitchers,” he murmured.
    I soon took leave of Jennings and left the hotel to find a meal. Strangely, having learned what a scoundrel Emmett Siever had been, I felt less guilty about taking his life. I had to remind myself that I really hadn’t killed him.
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