Historical Fiction written by Bryan Stalder

Kansas City, Autumn 1933

The late September heat provided a lingering Indian Summer that refused to yield to autumn. A thick, stagnant warmth hung over Muehlebach Field, smelling of stale cigarettes and roasted peanuts. It pressed against starched collars and soaked through felt hats, keeping the crowd in a slow, humid simmer as they watched the dusty diamond below.

Matthew Orr loosened his tie and dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. From his seat near the press area—one of the few places in the park where the color line bent, if only slightly—he watched Bullet Joe Rogan stride off the mound with the calm authority of a man who knew exactly who he was.

Orr glanced to his right and recognized the sharp, unmistakable profile of the man sitting a few seats down. Seizing the opportunity to introduce himself to this gentleman, Orr leaned slightly across the gap.

“Rogan is something else,” Orr said, using the shared language of baseball as an ice-breaker. “Pitches like a banker guarding a vault. Swings like he’s trying to tear the roof off the place.”

The man turned. Chester Franklin was immaculate in a light summer suit that looked immune to sweat, his hat resting precisely on his knee. He offered a smooth, measured smile. “Well, it helps when a man owns every tool in his trade.”

Orr extended a hand. “Matthew Orr.

Northeast News.”

Franklin took it firmly. “Chester Franklin. The Call. I’m familiar with your paper, Mr. Orr. You’ve been giving the Northeast a distinct voice lately.”

Orr smiled, genuinely pleased. “Ink in the veins since I was a boy. Though some days the Depression makes it hard to breathe, let alone print.”

“The Linotype doesn’t care who feeds it,” Franklin said. “Only that it gets fed.”

On the field, the peace of the afternoon shattered. A hard-hit grounder took a bad hop, striking the Monarchs’ shortstop square in the chest. As the ball trickled away, a base runner from the opposing team didn’t just slide into second—he went in spikes-high, hard and reckless, colliding with the fielder in a cloud of dust.

Instantly, both dugouts emptied. Players swarmed the infield, shouting and shoving as the umpires rushed to wedge themselves between the angry men. The crowd erupted into a chaotic chorus of boos and cheers.

Franklin watched the brewing brawl, his eyes narrowing. “Look at that,” he said quietly, his tone shifting. “A lot of heat, a lot of friction, and all of it happening over a few square feet of dirt.” He glanced sideways at Orr. “Reminds me a bit of the election results last spring.”

Orr shifted uncomfortably, the transition from sports to local power striking a nerve. “It’s always election season in this town,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“C’mon now,” Franklin said, eyes returning to the standoff on the field. “Are you still comfortable with the Goat?”

“Big Tom builds roads,” Orr countered. “Keeps men working. Keeps the Irish from being shut out of City Hall entirely. That counts for something.”

Franklin finally turned his full attention to him. “Does it count enough to excuse the graft? The vice? The thumb on the scale?”

Orr frowned. “Politics isn’t church. It’s a trade.”

“And trades,” Franklin said, “tend to favor the man who already owns the shop.”

Orr exhaled. “You Republicans always talk like Lincoln’s about to walk back through the door.”

Franklin smiled thinly. “And you Democrats talk like the Machine loves you. It doesn’t. It rents you.”

The umpires finally separated the players, restoring a tense order to the diamond. A vendor passed, hawking lemonade, but neither newsman moved.

“Let me tell you something,” Franklin said, leaning in just enough that Orr could smell the faint citrus of his cologne. “Are you familiar with Sarah Rector?”

Orr nodded. Most folks in Kansas City were aware of Sarah Rector. “The Richest Black Girl in America” was a household name, her rags-to-riches story the dream of every immigrant in the Northeast.

“I was attending an event at her place on 12th Street one evening,” Franklin continued. “Quiet affair. Music, conversation.”

Orr raised an eyebrow. “That’s rare company.”

“I haven’t even told you the story yet, friend,” Franklin said. “Duke Ellington was at the piano. Count Basie was waiting his turn. They argued—politely, mind you—about a tune. Duke wanted structure. Basie wanted swing. East Coast refinement versus Kansas City stomp.”

“And?” Orr asked.

“And then,” Franklin said, bringing the story full-circle, “they realized the argument didn’t matter. Because no matter how the song went, the booking agents and club owners were taking their cut first. The music was the only thing either of them truly owned.”

On the field, Rogan’s replacement struck out a batter clean. The crowd roared.

“You see,” Franklin continued, “they pit us against each other. Irish against Italians. Black against both. All of us scrambling for ward jobs and favors while the men at the top collect the real money.”

Orr stared out at the diamond. “You’re saying we’re fighting over the bench.”

“I’m saying,” Franklin replied, “that we’re all playing the same song, whether we admit it or not.”

Another cheer. A Monarchs runner slid home, dust clouding up around him like a small storm.

Franklin stood, placing his hat back on his head. “Good talking with you, Mr. Orr.”

“Likewise,” Orr said, rising as well.

They tipped their hats and went their separate ways, swallowed again by the heat and the crowd. Orr sat back down, the cheers still ringing in his ears, and felt something uncomfortable lodge itself in his thoughts—not an argument, not a conversion, but a splinter.

He watched the game with new eyes, wondering who truly owned the field.