Editor’s Note: This is an ongoing series which runs each Thursday morning titled the Richland Chronicles, by author Paul Lintern. It is set in the 1860s and tells the story of Richland County through the eyes of young people. The books are available from Lintern for $25 a set, tax and shipping included. Each book is about 120 pages written for intermediate readers (4th grade) with local illustrations. Volume I is Amelia Changes Her Tune. Volume II is Isaac and Wolf Paw Find Their Home. Volume III is Autumn Keeps Her Secret. Volume IV is Mr. Gamble Starts a School. Volume V is Jacob Blows his Horn. Volume VI is Cassie Fights the War. Volume VII is Emilene Adopts Her Family.
“Knock it, Smokey. Start us off,” one of the Mansfield players shouted as the team’s hurler strolled up to the striker’s box.
“We’re only two down; let’s get ‘em back,” another called.
Smokey called for a low pitch, but missed the first pitch. He called for another low pitch and took better aim, swatting it, but right to the shortstop.
“That’s all right, Bull will get things going. Clobber it, Bull!” Ice Wagon shouted as he picked up his stick to be ready to follow Bull.
“They have me batting after Ice Wagon,” Jacob told David. “They say I am a good contact striker, that I just need to put the ball in play and see what happens. I guess they think because I run fast, I’ll get on a lot.”
“What do you think?” David asked.
“I think I better put the ball in play, and run like the dickens,” Jacob said, and then they both jumped up as Bull struck a blow that towered into the outfield, between the center and left fielders. He charged around first and pulled up at second.
“That’s what we want to see,” Smokey shouted. “Now, bring him in Ice.”
Ice Wagon Burns stepped up on the left side of home plate and called for a high one. All the players backed up a few steps and the people sitting on the ground in deep right field stood up, anticipating a need to either get out of the way of the ball, or get into the way of the opposing right fielder.
Sure enough, the Mansfield first basemen hit a high fly ball into right field, and while the right fielder had to step into the crowd a few rows, no one tried to interfere, and he caught the ball with both hands, to the amazement of the fans nearby, and to the disdain of those farther away, as they thought someone should have pushed him a bit to let the ball bounce.
Still, Bull had the presence of mind to wait on second until the ball was caught, then ran to third before the outfielder could get it back.
I bet that right fielder can’t feel his hands, either, David thought. Now Jacob has to bring him in.
“Come on, Jacob, uh, Kid,” David shouted.
“Just a one-bagger, Kid.”
“Little one, Kid.”
“Put it in play, Kid.”
“Counting on you, Kid.”
Jacob walked up to the right side of the plate, tugged on his hat, hitched his belt, wiped his hands on his shirt and stared at the hurler, calling for a low one.
The first throw hit in front of the plate. Fortunately for Cincinnati, the catcher caught it before it squirted away, because Bull was charging down the third base line, and had to stop and hurry back.
The next throw was right where Jacob wanted it, and his swing was strong but did not get all of the ball. The ball trickled to the hurler, who had no trouble tossing it to the first baseman.
“Three hands dead,” the referee called, the only thing he had said that inning.
“Don’t worry, kid, we’re only down by two. We’ll get them next inning,” Birdlegs said as he trotted past Jacob to right field.
End of the first inning: Cincinnati 2, Mansfield 0.
+ + +
“Glad you could join us, Jacob,” Cassie said. “With your base ball practice, I wasn’t sure you would be able to play.”
“Well, David is sounding good on the banjo, but I don’t want to miss our family tradition, especially since Tim arranged for a piano for you.”
“Emilene and I have been working on a special version of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, fiddle-style. You can join in, if you think you can keep up,” Grace announced.
“The youngins be takin’ over the band, Sis,” Jacob said.
“‘Bout time,” Cassie replied. “I’m an old, married woman now.”
“Whose husband did not expect to be moving a pianoforte tonight, after a long day of fixing shingles,” Martin piped up, as he and Philip squeezed the instrument through the front door of the Costins’ grocery store.
Main Street was already filling with people who stood along buildings, sat on barrels and boxes and steps, leaned against hitching posts and peeked out of windows on the second floor of many of the storefronts.
The five began playing with their traditional, “Ol’ Dan Tucker,” in honor of their friend Dan Emmitt, and then “Go Tell Aunt Rhodie,” which got the onlookers dancing in the middle of the street. Soon, townspeople were gathering from all over, anticipating this regular event.
Tonight, the whole Zimmerman family was there — Mama Autumn and Father Levi; big brothers, Philip with his wife Julianne, and Nathaniel and Levi Jr.; Cassie with Martin, and her twin brother, Jacob, and “the chosen ones” — Emilene, Grace, and David.
It was the monthly summer outdoor concert in front of the Costin store, by the Zimmerkinder Band, a good tradition that started from a bad situation, four years earlier.
The piano was an addition two years ago, when Tim Costin realized what a good draw the band concerts were for customers. Miss Cole, the piano teacher upstairs, offered him one that a former student was trying to give away, and while it may take up more room than a little grocery store should allow, Tim liked to brag about being the “birthplace” of the Zimmerkinders.
After a couple more dances, and a patriotic singing by everyone of “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” Jacob raised his hand and declared to the crowd:
“We dedicate this concert to the Mansfield Independents Base Ball Club which a week from today will meet the Cincinnati Red Stockings out at the Leesville Road field of battle and will whip them good. Come all and see.”
With that, the band struck up a lively version of “Turkey in the Straw,” and the heels were kicking up dust up and down Main Street and east and west on Third Street.
A block down the hill, a man in a black suit stood in front of the Wiler House, hands on hips, frowning at the crowd that was not visiting his restaurant.
