18 - October 1968

Sometimes, when the world is spinning out of control, fate finds a way of stepping in and putting everything right. At least, that’s how it seemed in the fall of 1968.

Mr. Johnson spent most of his time that autumn working from home. Every afternoon, like clockwork, one of the lawyers at St. Pierre and Maddux would stop by the Johnson hill with sets of court documents. If it was Guy St. Pierre, he would often sit on the porch with Mr. Johnson and drink a beer while the two of them swapped stories.

Mr. Johnson often sat in his rocking chair in the living room while he sorted through the work. His briefcase sat on one side of his chair with a metal milk pail full of beer, all iced-down and cold. He’d watch the Reds on WLWC while he scribbled notes for the trial lawyers on a Steno Pad. Then, he’d formulate courtroom strategies for the other attorneys at St. Pierre and Maddux. It was long, tedious work, but it was better than spending the whole day in the office (and certainly more stress-free).

By the time October rolled around, the Detroit Tigers were knee-deep in the American League pennant race. Since early September, the surging Detroit Tigers had made regular appearances on national television. Of course, Byron and his father watched every game they could; they hoped to see Chick in action.

Baseball was the cure neither Detroit nor the rest of America had been searching for, but were happy to find.

Even before the baseball season began, there were tensions both domestic and abroad as the TET offensive got underway in late January. The Viet Cong celebrated the Vietnamese New Year by attacking the Americans and South Vietnamese Army. Every bloody moment was broadcast to America, witnessed on the nightly news. Due to heavy losses, American morale hit an all-time low.

In April, all eyes turned to Memphis and Dr. King’s assassination. Throughout the summer, anti-war protests and race riots erupted in all the major cities. This fed the fires for student activism as soon as the fall quarter began in universities throughout the nation.

When the rest of the world was coming apart, baseball had a calming effect on the people of Detroit.

In the ‘year of the pitcher’, pitching aces Mickey Lolich and Denny McClain helped the Tigers win the American League pennant. McClain even captured the award for the American League’s Most Valuable Player. In addition, the Tigers also had sluggers like Willie Horton and Al Kaline.

Although Chick had been called up from Rochester late in 1967, most of his duties in Detroit were a mere formality. Detroit had the best catcher you’ve never heard of. He was the sure-handed Bill Freehan. Freehan was considered the best defensive catcher in the American League. He won six gold gloves in a row and played in the 1968 All-Star game.

This core, combined with individual efforts from every member of the roster, led the Tigers straight to the World Series. By the end of September, the Tigers were regularly being featured on national telecasts. Both Byron and his father watched the Tigers every chance they could.

One night during dinner, Mrs. Johnson answered the phone. As long as I knew the Johnson’s, nobody ever dared to answer the phone during dinner. That night, however, Mrs. Johnson was waiting for an important call. When she picked up, it was Chick Washington, calling from Detroit.

“Hey Victoria, is Robert there?”

“Yeah, but I’m sort of waiting for an important call.”

“I want Robert and Byron to come up to Detroit as my special guests.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“C’mon, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

“I know, but you know what condition Robert’s in; he can’t possibly travel all that way.”

“Who is it?” asked Mr. Johnson. Victoria waved him off.

“I don’t think so.”

“What if I get you four tickets?”

“Can you really get us four tickets?”

“Who is it?”

“Shhh.”

As Mr. and Mrs. Johnson wrangled over the phone, Erica ran into her parents’ bedroom and picked up the receiver.

“Of course I can get you four tickets to the World Series. I’m a very important person in Detroit nowadays.”

“Whoo-Hoo!” shouted Erica.

“What is it?”

Erica bounded down the hall to the dining room area and hugged her mommy and daddy tightly.

“We’re going to the World Series!” she shouted.

“Now, Erica,” scolded her mother.

“Then it’s a date,” said Mr. Washington, “I’ll hold four tickets for you at Will Call.”

“Chick, we can’t just drop everything like that.”

Robert immediately snatched the phone away from Victoria.

“You can count on us to be there!” Mr. Johnson shouted into the phone.

“Alright, buddy!”

When Chick ended the call, everyone was sold on the trip except Mrs. Johnson. After a long discussion, it was finally agreed that they would leave early on Saturday morning, that way they would arrive late in the afternoon, check into the hotel and still have plenty time to get to the ball game.

Unfortunately, the best laid plans often go awry. Around two in the afternoon, they were already in Cleveland.

Mr. Johnson (who was riding shotgun) decided Mrs. Johnson should take the next exit and they’d find a place to eat. However, as soon as she got onto the off-ramp, it was clear this was not a good exit. There weren’t any restaurants to be found. Additionally, there were no gas stations where they could get directions.

As Mrs. Johnson tried to find her way through the unfamiliar Cleveland streets, Mr. Johnson barked directions at her, which only flustered her more.

To make matters worse, the sky turned from blue to gray to black as a sprinkling rain shower turned into an all-out downpour.

Mrs. Johnson drove around for a while until she found a corner Chinese restaurant in Euclid. She pulled the car to the curb and everyone got out.

“Don’t forget the lights,” said Erica.

“Oh, fiddle sticks!” said Mrs. Johnson as she stood in the rain.

“What is it, mommy?”

“I locked the keys in the car.”

Mr. Johnson bent over and looked at the steering wheel. The keys dangled from the ignition port, just a few feet away.

“We’ll go inside and get a coat hanger.”

Everyone went into the restaurant as Mr. Johnson tried to explain his predicament to the restaurant owner. Unfortunately, his English was poor and when Mr. Johnson took a wire hanger and bent it about, the restaurant owner threw a fit until his wife came out to the register. She explained things to him and let Mr. Johnson take the wire hanger without further debate. She also lent out an umbrella.

“Come on, Byron,” said Mr. Johnson, “you can hold the umbrella while I work the lock.”

Byron stood with his father as they worked to get the door unlocked. Eventually, a few guys came by and offered to help. One guy even told Byron that if he had a crowbar, he could just break the window and reach inside.

Mr. Johnson was relieved when a police cruiser arrived. The officer used a slim jim and quickly popped the lock. Mr. Johnson thanked him profusely before heading inside to get the girls.

Mrs. Johnson ordered two meals to go as they rushed back to the car and headed to Detroit.

When they finally arrived in Detroit, the game was already half over. With everyone still sopping wet, Mrs. Johnson insisted they check into the hotel and get dried off and warmed up.

Everyone else reluctantly agreed.

“This place is great!” spouted Erica as she flopped on the bed.

“I’ll shower first,” said Mrs. Johnson, that way we can get ready quickly.”

As the parents showered, Erica and Byron fed quarters into the coin slot for the “magic fingers bed”.  By the time Byron finished showering, the game was nearly over.

“It’s probably too late to go now,” said mother.

“”No, it’s not,” said Mr. Johnson.

By the time they caught a taxi to the game and picked up their tickets at Will Call, the game was just about over, even thought Detroit ran through their fourth and fifth pitchers in the top of the eighth. Still, Byron and his family stuck around for the last one and a half innings. The Tigers lost, 7-3

Chick looked up into the stands at their empty seats several times throughout the game. When the Johnsons returned to their hotel, there was a message at the front desk.

“Chick called around ten o’clock and was wondering where you were tonight. He said you could give him a call any time of night.”

Mr. Johnson told the whole convoluted story to Chick, which lightened Chick’s mood considerably. Chick held tickets for Game 4, which was supposed to start on early Sunday afternoon.

Gray skies remained over Detroit for Sunday’s game, too. Although, it should’ve been a portent of things to come, it also gave Byron a unique opportunity.

Byron’s seat was at the end of the front row right behind home plate. It was the same place Victoria always sat to watch Robert and Chick when she kept score and the boys played for the Black Barons.

As the field crew drew tarps over the field for the rain delay, Byron leaned over the fence, trying to peer into the dugout. After a short while, Chick came out of the dugout with Bill Freehan.

Children, dressed in black rain ponchos with the stylish Detroit D emblazoned on the back, sprawled over the back of the dugout with both arms outstretched. Every child had a pencil in one hand and something to sign in the other.

As Chick and Bill approached Byron, every kid scrambled through the aisles like a flock of hungry pigeons chasing after breadcrumbs in a town square.

“Hey, Byron,” called Chick, “I want you to meet Detroit’s all-star catcher, Bill Freehan.”

“Hello, Mr. Freehan.

Byron looked up at Mr. Freehan, who was dressed in full catcher’s gear. Byron was most awe-struck by the two black stripes under each of Bill’s eyes. He was quick to shake Bill’s hand as soon as it was offered. It was rough and calloused. Byron smelled the strong cherry odor as he stood next to Mr. Freehan; Bill’s left cheek bulged with a huge wad of chewing tobacco. To Byron, absolutely everything felt like baseball.

The game finally began after a thirty-five minute rain delay and the ground crew went to work with their squeegees. Thick sloshy tide pools formed along the third base line as they cleared the field.   The fact they were able to resume the game was extremely unfortunate for the Tigers.

When speedy Lou Brock (who wasn’t known for slugging) led off with a home run, it should’ve been a sign.

Game 4 continued through a light drizzle for two more innings, when the umpires called a second delay. By that time, the Cardinals led 6-0. The rains continued, but nobody would call the game, even with another long rain delay.

Although it was unseasonably cold, the game marched on until the Cardinals finished off the Tigers 10-1, taking a three-to-one lead in the series. Now, they were headed back to St. Louis, where the Cardinals would have a chance to wrap it up in front of their hometown fans.

“Sorry we didn’t win,” Chick apologized to Byron.

“It’s okay, I had a great time.”

“At least one of us did,” said Chick.

Even though Byron watched two less-than-spectacular games at Tiger Stadium, they were World Series games after all, with their filled-to-capacity stands, flashbulbs flickering whenever the sluggers stepped to the plate, and all the other sights, sounds, and smells that went along with the game.

“I think that trip to Detroit was a life-changing experience,” he said aloud as they drove home. His parents just laughed.

“What?” asked mother.

“I am going to be a professional baseball player one day.”

At that moment, it seemed like childhood folly. For Byron, however, it seemed like his fate.

The Johnson family arrived home late on Monday afternoon. Just like the rest of 1968, what started out absolutely awful ended up rosy as the Tigers swept the next three games and took the series four games to three.

While the Johnson family watched the Tigers win the World Series, Mr. St. Pierre was busy at the law firm.

With the staff dwindling to just four active partners, the burden on everyone’s shoulders doubled. For Guy, however, it increased three-fold. He found himself under even greater pressure as he began sewing up his own loose ends after Tom Meyers’ departure. His misery began with a chance meeting in an elevator on his way to Appeals Court.

“Hey, Guy,” said the man.

“Hey Ray,” replied Mr. St. Pierre.

It was Ray Rodgers, the lead partner at Tom Meyers’ new law firm.

“I was just talking to some people at Hudepohl.”

“Oh?”

“It seems that Tom was trying to bring them over to our firm. Did you know about this?”

Guy shook his head.

“Let me talk to some of my colleagues and I’ll give you a call later this afternoon.”

“Okay.”

Even before he took the fateful call from Ray Rodgers, Guy discovered that Hudepohl Brewing was just the tip of the iceberg.

“Robert? Can you come into the office?”

“I suppose so. What’s wrong?”

“Tom mounted an insurrection.”

“We knew that, didn’t we?”

“He’s been courting some of our best clients. He also tried to convince Albert Crupper and some of the other attorneys to jump ship.”

“Nobody said anything to me.”

“Me, neither.”

“I’ll be right in.”

As Robert hopped into a pair of slacks, Victoria interrupted him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Tom Meyers is making more trouble at the office.”

“I thought he left the firm.”

“He did, but he’s trying to gaslight the whole damned thing.”

“I can drive you there.”

“I’ll be fine.”

It was standing room only in the law firm’s only meeting room. The entire staff, including the law clerks and receptionists, was packed into the room. Al stood up as Robert entered the room.

“What’s going on?”

“We took a vote.”

“A vote on what?”

“We’ve reluctantly decided to disband St. Pierre and Maddux.”

“You took a vote without me?”

“We were just talking…”

“That’s not proper procedure, Al.”

“Robert, it was three-to-one.”

“All this because Tom walked out?”

“Hudepohl’s gone, Robert, as well as most of the files.”

“He can’t just steal those files…”

“But he did,” said Al.

“You know the firm’s been having troubles for months…”

“Guy?”

Guy simply nodded.

“We’re not going to chase him down?”

“We just don’t have the time or the money to deal with all this.”

“So that’s it? We’re rolling over and playing dead?”

“Each partner can still go our own separate way. We still keep our own clients. We’ll hire an arbitrator to split up the assets.”

Most of Robert’s work, though, involved the research and filings. He never did go in for rubbing elbows or making friends with people he could hardly stand. Mr. Johnson was simply a man who told you how he felt, either good or bad. He was a man of few words, but the words he used were the words he meant.

After the last meeting of minds at St. Pierre and Maddux adjourned, Robert headed directly out the front door.

“Robert,” said Guy, “where are you going?”

“I’m going to the rendering plant to pick up some boxes.”

“I’ll go there with you.”

The meat packing plant had been of little or no use to the attorneys in all their time there. It didn’t provide a single client. It only produced the horrible stench of rendered meat that often clung to the air outside the law firm. In fact, the firm kept the air conditioning running year-round just to keep the smell to a minimum.

They gathered as many old, wet, meatpacking boxes as they could and piled them in the back of Guy’s sedan.

“That should be enough for now. Any more and it’ll leave an odor so bad my wife will have my head.”

Robert grinned. “What do you think you are going to do next?”

“I’m not sure. What about you?”

Robert shrugged.

“Let’s form a new firm, just you and me.”

“You know I really don’t like this stuff.”

“You handle the research and I’ll worry about the clients.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

Robert glanced over at the rotten old boxes full of paperwork sitting in the passenger seat as he drove home. He heaved a sigh as he rolled down the window and leaned an arm outside.

If it wasn’t one thing about Bond Hill, it was another. Like Bond Hill itself, St. Pierre and Maddux was sandwiched between the worst of a lot of Cincinnati’s “unwanted” industries: the warehouse district, the meat rendering factory, the railroad, and the sewage treatment plant. If one odor didn’t get you, another did.

On that particular day, the air was calm and breezeless, stagnant with several odors at once; a veritable goulash of poverty. Robert held his nose as he headed into the house.

“Hello? Victoria?”

Victoria emerged from the kitchen with a red bandana wrapped about her muzzle.

“You look like an old-time train bandit.”

“The stink is something awful. Some days, I just can’t stand it.”

He peeled off her mask and gave her a peck on the lips. She immediately pulled it back over her nose.

“How did it go?”

Robert shook his head, “Not well at all. The partners voted to disband.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay. Guy talked to me about setting up a small two-man firm. Maybe we’ll do that.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“It’s not what I want to do, but it’s what I’ve got to do.”

“I could pick up a job on the side.”

“No, we’ll find a way.”

By week’s end, all the Ts were crossed and the Is dotted. St. Pierre and Maddux was no more. Mr. Johnson did partner up with Guy to form St. Pierre and Johnson, a two-man firm that informally ran out of Guy’s house until they could find a smaller office they both could afford.

Mostly, the partnership worked criminal cases, which meant a lot of bill collecting, too. Still, the duo managed quite well.

The men didn’t mind. Working out of their houses meant more time with their kids.

“Dad,” said Byron.

Mr. Johnson looked up to see his kids standing over him.

“Yes, son?”

“Can you play catch with me?”

“I’m busy. How about you play with Erica?”

“She’s a girl.”

“She can throw and catch.”

“Not very hard.”

“Then hook up the pitching machine.”

“Mom says you have to supervise.”

“I suppose she’s right.”

Mr. Johnson gathered a handful of papers and moved out to the backyard. He weighted them with a few bricks and pulled the Juggs machine into place while Byron and Erica lugged two laundry baskets of baseballs behind him. He put it at one end of the yard and chained it into place. The children assumed their positions at the other end.

“Erica, come here.”

“What?”

“You’re going to feed the hopper.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

Erica walked towards her father who placed her directly behind the Jugs machine. He then placed a baseball in each of her hands and flipped the power switch. The Jugs whirred to life.

“Go ahead.”

Erica tentatively placed the ball at the top of the feeder. As she let go, the baseball rolled down the tube until it met the wheels. Erica flinched as it shot out with a “THWAP!”

“That’s how you get hurt,” said her father.

She followed his cue, placing another baseball into the feeder tube. Eventually, she was feeding them one right after another.

Mr. Johnson returned to the back porch and his legal work.

Some time later, Mrs. Johnson appeared at the screen door.

“Robert! What are you doing?”

Everyone stopped with a jolt. Erica slipped one final baseball into the hopper and it shot towards Byron. Byron put his glove hand up and ducked out of the way. The ball popped cleanly in the netting.

“They’re alright,” he stated.

“No, they’re not.”

Mrs. Johnson marched out to the Jugs machine and turned it off. Then, she reeled the extension cord in her hands and took it inside.

“What now?” asked Byron.

“You’ll play catch with your sister.”

Byron let out a groan.

As the men enjoyed their time at home, the women had enough children to raise without being personal secretaries, cooks, and maids to boot. The women wanted the men to get back to business as usual, and soon.

Even before Halloween came and went, the men moved into a room in an office building closer to downtown. It was small, but adequate.

Both Robert and Guy managed to have run-ins with Tom Meyer, but they never really came to no blows with their ex-partner. It seemed all the ghosts and goblins steered clear of Robert and Guy. At least for now…

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