Free Hunting a Detroit Tiger by Troy Soos Page A

thing I was clear on: it was unfair that a man like Siever could do what he’d done and be remembered as a great guy while Hughie Jennings could give thirty good years to baseball and be discarded like an old scorecard.
    I wondered what Jennings would do if Frank Navin fired him. Would he end up a night watchman or a bartender like so many other former stars?
    Then my thoughts turned to myself: what would I do if I could no longer get a job in baseball?

    I walked through Cleveland’s theater district, a spaghetti dinner sitting heavy in my stomach, still fretting over just about everything. Amid the vaudeville and burlesque houses were movie marquees advertising Mary Pickford’s Pollyanna, Gloria Swanson in Cecil B. DeMille’s Why Change Your Wife, and The Sporting Duchess starring Alice Joyce. None of them tempted me. What I needed was something to make me laugh.
    At Ninth and Prospect, I came to The Strand, which was featuring Harold Lloyd’s latest comedy Haunted Spooks. I was about to enter when a poorly lit marquee half a block away caught my eye. Headlining at Grand Vaudeville was Serial Queen Marguerite Turner. I grinned so broadly at seeing the name that the muscles in my cheeks ached. Margie Turner!
    Harold Lloyd forgotten, I rushed to the Grand’s ticket booth and paid thirty cents for a third-row seat. I walked into the half-empty theater as the Four Harmony Kings were perpetrating a barbershop quartet rendition of “How Ya Gonna Keep ’Em Down on the Farm After They’ve Seen Paree.” The shabby interior, reeking of mildew and perspiration, smelled almost as bad as the music. A smattering of applause greeted the end of the song, and “Eccentric Comedian Milo” came out to perform bird imitations. I sat through three more acts until the card on the easel read:

    MARGUERITE TURNER
Recreating Scenes from
“Dangers of the Dark Continent”

    The curtain parted to reveal a jungle set consisting of potted trees, hanging vines, and a backdrop illustrated with birds, snakes, and monkeys. The painted creatures on the canvas sheet were more frightening than the live, ancient, shaggy-maned lion that stood in the center of the stage. The heavy chain attached to one of the animal’s unsteady legs eliminated any sense of danger.
    From the wings, a young girl in a frilly pink dress walked out twirling a parasol. The lion roared something like a yawn, and in fine melodramatic style the girl squealed, “Help! Help!” A rolled-up newspaper poked out from behind a potted plant and smacked the lion’s rear paw, causing him to roar again.
    Bounding into the scene came Marguerite Turner, wearing jodhpurs and a pith helmet. “Get back!” she warned the passive beast.
    At the sight of Miss Turner, I stopped wondering why a little girl would be strolling through the jungle with a parasol in the first place. My complete attention shifted to the actress I had known as Margie.
    It had been six years ago, when I was playing for the Giants and Margie was making pictures with the Vitagraph Studio in Brooklyn. I’d watched her film scenes for the serial that she was now “recreating”—I’d even gotten bit parts in a couple of them. The movie versions hadn’t been much more realistic than the portrayal on the stage, but Margie Turner was very real—and very special. We’d had an incredible time together until her career took her to Hollywood.
    Margie moved slowly toward the lion. She then sprang at him, her helmet falling off. Her long brown hair tossed from side to side as she wrestled the big cat hand to hand. The little girl put her hand over her eyes, but there was no cause for fear. The lion looked pleased that someone was playing with him.
    I went back to thinking of the times Margie and I had had together—at Coney Island, in the movie studio, at the ballpark. The romance had been more magical than anything the movies could create. Despite the fact that a friend of hers had been murdered and we’d had to