The Cincinnati Red Stalkings Read Online Free PDF

uh, I just came by to see if there was any word on when the opening was going to be.”
    “That’s what we were discussing,” Tinsley said, turning to Perriman. “It’s going to be soon, right Oliver?”
    Perriman pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his trouser pocket and ran it over his face. “Yes, Lloyd. Just give me a few more days, and we’ll set a date.”
    “Give me a firm date by tomorrow afternoon. Or I’ll set it myself.”
    Perriman nodded weakly. “I’ll work through the night.”
    Tinsley smiled—which was a frightening sight with those teeth. “Good. We understand each other then.” He checked his gold pocket watch and snapped it shut. “Well, I have to go—giving a speech to an Elks lodge.” He then straightened the perfectly straight knot of his burgundy silk tie and stepped past me toward the door. “Fine game today, Rawlings.”
    “Thank you.” I’d had nothing to do with our 3–1 win, but perhaps Tinsley didn’t know that; I had the feeling he spent more time with accounting books than box scores.
    Perriman’s face visibly relaxed when Tinsley’s footsteps faded down the hall.
    “Sorry,” I said. “Guess I came at a bad time.”
    “No, not at all. It was like Mr. Tinsley said, just a business discussion.”
    “He sounded pretty peeved.”
    Perriman gave me a broad wink. “You should have been here at the start of the discussion. That’s when I was peeved.” He reached for a copy of the Enquirer that was on the table. “Look at what he put in the paper.” The newspaper was folded back to an item in the Amusements section: Baseball Museum to Open Soon.
    “Isn’t that good?” I asked. “Don’t you want publicity?”
    He sighed. “Not when I’m not ready for it. There’s too much material that still has to be sorted and authenticated. And I have to figure out how it should be displayed. Can’t just pile it all on a table—the exhibit has to be arranged properly, and I have to write up cards explaining each piece.”
    I had the impression that Perriman might have grown a little too fond of his collection and simply didn’t want to relinquish it to public view.
    “Oh! Come look!” He started toward the desk, beckoning me to follow. “Got a couple new items I think you’ll appreciate.”
    On the wall next to the desk hung a neatly pressed white flannel jersey with a crimson old English “C” on the front. “Is this—?”
    “Yes,” Perriman said, beaming. He took the hanger that held the shirt down from its peg. “And I know it’s authentic. Cal McVey sent it to me himself.”
    “He’s still alive?”
    “Living in San Francisco, a night watchman in a lumberyard. He was the youngest on the club, only eighteen. Came over from the Indianapolis Actives to play right field.” He ran a finger over the “C” on the shirt. “My, but I’m glad to have this. You know, if I wasn’t worried about tearing it, I’d have tried it on!”
    “It’s wonderful,” I said. The old uniform looked too stiff to move around in, but I thought that might have been because of age; from the scores the Red Stockings ran up, they must have been able to run around just fine.
    He hung the jersey back up, then reached to the wall under the Charlie Gould bat, and took down a small walnut frame that held two large medals pinned to a piece of green velvet. “These are both solid gold. Came today on loan from George Wright—he’s the only other one of the Red Stockings still alive.”
    Perriman pointed to the one on the left, a fairly plain disk attached to a red ribbon. “This was given to Harry Wright by the Union Cricket Club in ’66, before the club took up baseball. He was champion bowler and instructor.” The other medal, with a striped ribbon, had a starburst pattern that reminded me of a French Croix de Guerre that I’d seen during the war, but with crossed bats instead of swords. “This is the Clipper Prize awarded to George Wright in 1868—he was playing in New York