Free Red Jacket by Joseph Heywood

reminded his friend.
    Vairo studied him, chewed his lower lip. “What you got to do with guvamint, Lute?”
    Bapcat explained.
    The Italian whistled and snapped his hand, making a sharp popping sound. “You gotta be crazy, game warden, Lute. Maybe house outside town be better, si? You live here, dey all watch you, know when you come and go, no?”
    â€œThey can watch all they want, Dominick.”
    â€œYou don’t like trappin’ no more, Lute?”
    â€œIt doesn’t pay. Beavers are down.”
    â€œThis game warden t’ing, I t’ink not pay enough.”
    â€œFive-fifty for the house,” Bapcat said. “Tops.”
    Vairo’s shoulders slumped and his hands flew up, pleading. “You put me in poorhouse! I buy this place, fix up for profit, you understand? I want to throw away my money, I do better go play pool with Georgie Gipp.”
    â€œThe offer stands,” Bapcat insisted.
    Vairo sighed. “Okay, you my friend.”
    The two men shook hands. “I’ll bring a signed contract as soon as I get it from Lansing.”
    â€œNo hurry. You wanna move in now, go ahead.”
    â€œThink I’ll wait.”
    A large sign across the street proclaimed ahmeek athletic association . The wooden building was like an arena, but open to the elements. “What’s that?”
    â€œCroats and my pipples, we call it Cousin Jack House. The Cornwallers, they hold big wrestling games over dere.”
    â€œAgainst all comers?”
    â€œNo, just dere own kind. The rest of us prob’ly too dirty for dose damn Cousin Jacks,” Vairo said sarcastically, referring to the Cornish, who still held the most powerful and lucrative positions in the mines.
    As they headed toward the electric trolley station they saw George Gipp and two pals, all of them lean, muscled, and confident.
    â€œDa muscatelles,” Vairo greeted them, grinning.
    â€œYeah, Frenchmen like me,” the tallest one said cheerfully, and extended his hand to Bapcat. “Chubb Chaput, ball player.”
    â€œBapcat,” the new deputy said.
    â€œThis is my pal, Dolly Gray,” George Gipp said. “He’s up from Notre Dame to play some summer ball with the Aristocrats.”
    â€œBall players, dey t’ink kid games is work,” Vairo muttered.
    â€œI’m just here warming up for the Phillies,” Chaput announced.
    Aristocrats, Phillies, Notre Dame—Bapcat had no idea what these things were. And didn’t care.
    â€œJust kid games,” Vairo said dismissively.
    Chubb Chaput rubbed the tavern owner’s back affectionately. “Hey, Dominick, it’s the American game, not that silly cricket the Jacks play.”
    â€œCricket, she’s very old game,” Vairo said. “Like bocci.”
    â€œAnd we’re still a real young country,” Gray said.
    â€œYou guys any good this summer?” Vairo asked Gipp.
    â€œI’m bettin’ on us,” the young man said.
    â€œYou fellas help me convince your friend,” Gray said. “George here is real good, and he belongs in college at Notre Dame. With me.”
    â€œHe ain’t finished high school,” Chaput pointed out.
    Gray dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “Guy can play ball like our Georgie, Notre Dame will figure a way to get him in. I’ve talked to Coach Harper about him, and he’s a cinch. All he has to do is show up in South Bend.”
    All the talk about sport and baseball bored Bapcat. It had taken all his time and energy just to stay alive since he was twelve.
    â€œWe should be going,” Vairo said.
    â€œWe come up to watch the Jacks grope each other,” Gipp said. “You fellas want to join us?”
    â€œNot me,” Vairo said. “I get back to the saloon.”
    â€œI’ll join you fellas,” Bapcat said, wanting to get a better sense of this Gipp kid.
    â€œWe got good money on Roscopla,” Gray