Chapter 2: The Fantastic Tale of Finnick Flynn
Our mystery character arrives
Chapter 2
From Erin Hayes’ Journal No. 5, August 1941
The Darien Deacons are in the dumps, folks. It’s the last two weeks of the 1941 GPFBL (The Georgia Peanut Farmers Baseball League) and the Deacs are reeling from the loss of shortstop Scott “Scooter” Brinkman to an unexpected injury thanks to that newfangled Turner peanut harvester.
It caused quite a stir – dare I say a spectacle - when it arrived at Scooter’s daddy’s farm. Blazing red and hulking, the beast was two cars long and taller than my daddy’s truck. Affixed to its side were a collage of gears and belts driving the hidden engine and parts that separated the peanuts from the vine.
Peanut farming is backbreaking work. After plowing and planting, harvesting began months later with more plowing – this time to dig up the peanuts which grew underground. They needed to dry in the sun, so the bushes were stacked on a metal pole for a few days. Then we picked the peanuts off the vines.
Scooter’s daddy had the biggest farm in Darien, so that meant he employed the most people. He was always looking for new and better ways to do things. The Dailey was made for the last stage of the harvest. You put a bushel in and lickety-spit it spat out peanuts.
It roared like an elephant when Scooter switched it on, surprising him so much he stumbled, lost his footing on a stray vine, and fell into the middle of that machinery. A collective GASP arose from the 20 or so of us there to witness the event. Scooter’s mama fainted.
God must have been there to see the new harvester because that’s the only way to explain the fact Scooter walked away with just a separated shoulder (and probably some deep internal scars.) His mama – when she was revived – grabbed Scooter and held the 18-year-old boy like a newborn baby, checking his body for more serious injuries. To me she seemed a little disappointed there wasn’t more damage. Mrs. Brinkman always had a flair for the dramatic.
After the kerfuffle died down, it was Henry “Smoodge” Carson who brought everyone back to reality when he said, “Scoot, who is going to play shortstop? We play the [Douglas] Goobers tomorrow.”
The next day manager Buster Poole assembled the team early, a couple of hours before the game. His brow furrowed as if he were in deep thought. As the official beat reporter for the Deacons, of course I was there.
“Do any of you know of someone who could replace Scooter?” Buster pleaded.
The players, assembled on the first-base line, fidgeted and scraped the dirt with their shoes, quiet as if they were in church.
They knew replacing Scooter was a tall order. Not only was the shortstop the anchor of the infield, Scooter also led the team with a. 380 batting average (I was also official statistician).
After a minute of total silence, Buster clapped his hands and had the boys start warming up. They took their positions, all subconsciously avoiding the gap between third and second base.
“Okay boys,” Buster shouted, “We may have to play with eight fellas, so let’s try each of you at short for a —sp… ”
Buster trailed off, looking off beyond the fence in left field.
“Who is that?” Buster asked no one in particular.
And that’s when Finnick Flynn walked into our lives. Well, if I’m being honest, he more like materialized. He seemed to be transparent at first, but more solid as he approached. He hopped the fence, startling centerfielder Melvin “Spider” Rickenbrode, who didn’t scare easily.
“What in the … ” Spider said.
“Greetings!” said Finnick. “Fine morning for a baseball contest! Mind if I join? I happen to have my equipment.” He pointed to the bat resting on his right shoulder, a well-used brown leather mitt perched on the end.
“Where did you … ” Spider started again, but the words were stuck in his noggin. He gave up and simply pointed at Buster.
“Yes, the skipper. Perfect!” Finnick clapped Spider on the shoulder and made a beeline for the equally stunned manager.
Finnick held his hand out as he approached Buster.
“Finnick Flynn at your service. It seems you are deficient one player,” he said looking at the gap in the infield.
Buster shook Finnick’s hand slowly, mind still spinning. Then he came to.
“What did you say your name was again, son?” Buster asked.
“Yes, it is quite unusual, isn’t it?” Finnick replied with a smile. “It was supposed to be Finnegan, after a family relative. However, when they handed me to my mother, she was still a little delirious from the arduous birthing process. The doctor asked for a name, and, on the verge of passing out she noticed I was still covered in some … matter, and what came out was Finn-ick!”
He pantomimed his mother with a gross face sticking its tongue out, and then ended with a burst of laughter.
“Mother promptly passed out after that, so the name was written down for the birth certificate and subsequently stuck. I don’t mind it actually; I think it’s a differentiator.”
Buster was catching up now.
“Okay Finnick,” Buster said, trying the name on for size. “This team is part of a league, and I need permission from the commissioner.”
This is a good place for some background on the league. The GPFBL was founded by Stumpy Wheeler, owner of one of the largest peanut farms in Plains, Georgia. Peanuts are planted around the first week of May and take up to 150 days to mature. Combine that long growing cycle with the amount of farm boys that were employed in the area, and there was a need for some entertainment.
Minor-league baseball was expanding all over the country and Wheeler wanted to get in on the action. He worked with five other cities to compile teams. The farms were within a two-hour car or bus ride. Wheeler even organized a championship and a purse for the winning team. Since there was prize money available, Wheeler wanted to make sure farms were not importing ringers. Players had to be employed by the farm and have permission from the commissioner.
“Would that commissioner be one Stumpy Wheeler?” Finnick asked.
“That’s him,” Buster responded.
Finnick reached into his back pocket and produced a folded piece of paper.
“I believe this is the permission you are seeking.”
Buster unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning it quickly. He let out a small grunt of approval and handed the letter back to Finnick.
“So, we have you for two weeks, just enough for the last games,” Buster affirmed. “If we win both, we qualify for the championship. At the moment there's not much work, but let's say for the commissioner's sake you are working on the Sullivan farm. Do you have accommodations?”
Finnick nodded and smiled. “Yes, I am staying at the Brassart Boarding House.”
Standing 5-9, and probably 150 pounds soaking wet, Finnick Flynn didn’t appear to be physically imposing or talented, but if you looked, you saw the wiry, strong muscles in his arms. It was as if you could sense the tensile strength of his frame. He wore a green and white argyle shirt tucked into a fairly clean pair of denim jeans. He appeared to be wearing black shoes, but they indeed were baseball cleats.
Finnick’s blue eyes were framed by wispy blonde hair that was close cut. His smooth cheeks erupted in dimples when he smiled. Yes, I thought he was dreamy. Sue me
Buster introduced himself and did a quick rundown of the rest of the team, pointing at them as he named them.
“We got Abe, Smoodge, Jumper, Hud, E-Train, Lefty, Hawk, and you met Spider. Do you have a nickname?” Buster inquired.
“Finnick is fine,” he said, smiling. “It’s already kind of a nickname.”
Buster nodded in approval.
“OK let's get to it. Where can you play?”
“Anywhere you need me, Skip. Looks like shortstop is vacant. I’ll set up there.”
Finnick deftly pulled down on the handle of the bat still on his right shoulder, causing the glove to pop into the air. He stuck his left hand straight up, shoulder high, and the glove fell perfectly onto his hand, fingers fitting snugly inside.”
The boys all watched, slack jawed. They would all later try to replicate the glove flip and catch on their own, to no avail.
It was just a sample of the magic to come.
Buster hobbled his 60-year-old frame behind home plate, grabbed a bat and reached into a metal bucket full of dirt-stained baseballs.
“Nobody out! Coming to you, Finnick!” he bellowed, and knocked a medium-paced ground ball toward him.
Finnick smoothly ranged to his right two steps, scooped the ball into his glove, transferred it seamlessly, and laced a perfect throw across the diamond to Jasper “Jumper” Bronitt at first base. He was called Jumper because he was nearly impossible to overthrow.
The ball made a “sssszzz” sound in-flight and landed with a “thwop” when it hit Jumper’s glove.
Buster, never a person to have a loss of words, was about to catch flies with his open mouth (it would become a common occurrence) at home plate with the bat still on his shoulder. Jumper took a moment to massage his glove hand. Third baseman Elias “E-Train” Sullivan let out a low whistle of appreciation.
“Okay,” Buster said, breaking the silence. “Let’s turn two.”
Finnick socked his glove with his right hand and looked at the second baseman.
“You ready, Hud?” He said. Hud nodded.
When Buster threw the ball in the air to hit it, Finnick took two quick steps to his right. Buster knocked another grounder right to where Finnick stood. He had anticipated right where the ball would be.
Bending over, he watched the ball into his glove, and then with his right hand – standing completely still mind you – wrapped a behind the back throw right into Hud’s glove. He caught it, quick transfer, then a bullet to first base for the out. Hud had practiced this motion thousands of times. It was ingrained in his muscle memory. That’s the only reason he was able to complete the play, because afterward he stood staring at Finnick with a gaze of wonderment.
Again, Buster was lost for words.
Smoodge, the hulking blond-haired catcher (probably the smartest and funniest player on the team) poked Buster gently and said, “I think he’ll do.”
Buster agreed.
“Okay, boys, let’s get the field ready for the game. Finnick, let’s get you a uniform.”
The infielders grabbed rakes to smooth out the dirt and pulled any weeds. The outfielders grabbed shovels and carefully scanned the outfield for any gopher holes. You could break an ankle stepping in one of those.
Buster led Finnick to the dugout, where he dug into a duffel and produced a clean uniform for Finnick.
“This will do perfectly,” Finnick said, admiring the new duds.