For Love of the Game (8 page)

“Rise and shine, Billy. Number Two.” Chapel came back into the game. Out toward the mound: no music: no pictures in the brain. All that cleared. He saw nothing but Joe Birch, slowly stepping
into position to wait outside the box. Chapel’s mind focused on Birch. Next man to hit. First up in the second: the clean-up man. Josephus.

Silence in Chapel’s mind now rather unusual. Not the time for music. Vision: the swing Birch made that day when he hit it farther than anybody ever had before, that fastball, vision of the ball rising, going, departing, gone. Birch said afterward: “Never hit it that far except off Chapel’s fastball. It was coming so fast I just closed my eyes and swung, and it bounced. S’truth, s’help me.”

Birch stepped into the box. He nodded, from a long way away. Chapel nodded. Meyers, the ump, said something to Gus, grinned, stroked his mustache. This would be interesting. Chapel stepped back off the mound: Gus knew: sent no signals, waited.

Chapel: sooner or later Josephus always hits you. He is one of the few, the very few, who gives you that slight clutch in the stomach that comes sometimes thinking of the way this one can hit the ball right back at you so hard and fast you may never see it coming, toward the head, as it did one time to.… Well. Fella has power. Great power. Almost never goes for the first pitch. Will he today? Look. No. Decisively no. Normal with Birch, but look: he sets himself and watches you and notes the wind and the thickness of the air—learned that from Williams—and all the details, and watches the first pitch with no motion at all, then two,
slowly beginning to tick away to the timing zone that was just right, and then comes three, and by then he’s ready, and he might go, certainly by four, don’t ever ease up on four—but he often waits and walks, sensing properly the time when he’ll get nothing at all to hit, so he might as well take the free trip, but today … no free trip today. Today: give him the best. And we’ll see. Does he know? Think he does.

Well. Nothing better than the smoker. And today’s the day. He won’t expect it on the first pitch. I almost never do. Because I don’t want to give him the timing. So today: fireball one.

Chapel stepped to the mound. Looked again. Knew: he’ll take the first one. So Chapel threw hard, right down the tube. Strike one.

Birch changed the position slightly. Ready now. He may go for … anything at all now. Yes. If it’s close at all … the way he’s set … hook to the inside. Off the wrist. The screwball. It took Gus a long time to find the right signal: even Gus wasn’t expecting the screwball, which was not Chappie’s best bending ball, at all at all, unless he was having one of those rare days when everything curved in every direction. Chapel cocked, threw, the pitch broke down and in toward the right-handed hitter: he swung, caught a tiny piece, fouled it back off his wrists. Strike two.

Haven’t thrown a ball yet.

Hell of a day.

Yep.

What now, sonny?

Two strikes, no balls.

He won’t expect one over the plate. He’ll think I’ll tease with a curve or a slider, like I just did. Why don’t we … go to Number One?

Gus picked the signal. Chapel threw Old Smokey. He fired all there was, it blazed on by. Strike three.

Birch took it without any motion. Just stood there. He had expected something teasing, curving, bending, had been looking for the waste. He had struck out. He took a long look at Chapel, knew what was happening, put a hand up to his cap as a salute, went slowly away.

Three out of four strikeouts. Better settle down, ace. Can’t go all the way. But gee … wasn’t that fine?

No holds barred today, Billy. Throw it all, throw it all. Goin’ home, Billy, goin’ home.

Music came back into the mind now softly: Goin’ Home, Goin’ Home, I’m just goin’ home. The symphony … of the New World. He began to relax a bit, now that Birch was gone, and did not go back to the fastball for several pitches, since that’s what they all were expecting. It was unnecessary for the next two hitters. They were both tight, set for the heavy stuff, so he went to the big curve, the soft slider, and both grounded to the infield. Inning number two: done. Goin’ Home,
Goin’ Home … walked slowly, happily to the bench, sat, tucked his cap down over his eyes.…

… they went to bed that first night—no—early in the morning. It was the wrong time. Too soon, too soon. There should have been more … time to open. She talked to him for hours about the mess of her life, she poured things out she had told no one else—she said: “I have no friends, and … there is something about you, something in that wide-eyed face.” Across a crowded room. Something gentle and … innocent, the ballplayer, the big kid, and he was somebody she could talk to, and so she talked and eased out from under the weight of it that night and afterward she gave him her body, lay there as a social gift, did nothing but mechanize, exhausted, and he felt strange, missing links all over the place, because
that
woman, when you sat across a table from her and listened to her talk and watched her eyes move and glow and felt her hand come across to touch you, that woman was not the same one in bed that night. In the bed she was a robot. She watched him: she knew. She said: “Very sorry, Billy Boy.” First time she called him that. “It was too soon.” Chapel didn’t understand why. But it was. She said: “I was doing you a favor, because you did one for me … but there’s more to it than that … or should be … or probably never will be. You wanted more than that, and I don’t have it, Billy, I don’t have it. I’m a
weeper. I don’t have the right things … for anybody. Or was it—Billy—was it just … too quick? Was I too easy? Was that what it was? Because you are important to me already, you are not just another roll in the hay. What.…”

“I don’t know what.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’ll go. But … thanks, Billy.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Long look. “You want to see me tomorrow? Really?” She was genuinely surprised.

“Hell, yes.”

She said: “We won’t go to bed tomorrow.”

“I want to see you. Do whatever.… Want to go flying?”

“I just want to have some fun,” she said.

“I’ll look into the matter.”

“I think I can make you laugh. I betcha I can.”

“How about flying? I know this fella who has a plane. Do you like to fly? I was thinking of flying up the river.”

And they did. And it began. And they did not go to bed for.…

… tap on the shoulder. Gus.

“Less go, Chappie.”

Chapel stood up, yawned dreamily.

Gus said, with a grin: “No. I mean it’s your turn at the plate.”

“Oh.” Chapel looked round. Nobody on base. Hell with it.

Gus: “Now you take it easy. Durkee’s throwin’ in close today. Think he’s tryin’ to keep up with you. Shit. Never will. But we don’t need nothin’.”

“Eh.” Chapel, who had always been blessed with a fine hitter’s eyesight and excellent reflexes, was going to the plate not truly a good hitter but adequate, adequate: he knew where the ball was and sometimes guessed very well and had he gone into another position, not pitching, he might have had a pleasant surprise. Pops always believed that. With men on base Billy was consistent. But there was nobody on base at all and he did not want to use up the fuel by running, or even just standing there swinging, so he stepped casually up into position giving a happy cheerful peaceful grin, and Joe Birch, knowing him, said: “Howdy, Champ. Hell, you ain’t takin’ us serious.”

“Josephus.”

“What the hell you have for breakfast?”

“Scotch and water.”

“Hmm. Know what? You get older, goddammit, you gettin’
faster
.”

“Wait till next time. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“Ah, come on. If that’s true, I quit.”

Durkee threw: right up the middle: strike one. Durkee understood. Ah. Why not? Chapel dug in. Durkee watched him, threw the next one far outside. Chapel chuckled. Durkee grimaced. Chapel said: “Tell him I think it’s time I hit one. Yep. Time to swat.”

They took him seriously and Durkee got careful and the next two pitches were fastballs, low. Chapel: don’t want to walk. Hell, waste time standin’ out there. Next pitch a slow curve: Chapel hit it on one hop to Durkee, didn’t bother to run, just went a few casual steps and then turned and ambled back to the bench.

“See you, Josephus.”

Birch laughed. “Hope I see you.”

Chapel wandered back, but the inning was already over before he sat down; he stopped by the water cooler and drank that cool clear mountain dew, which was the kind the Old Man had started years ago and always tasted so fine on the warm days, and while he was standing there the next Hawk popped up, and so Chapel went back out for inning number three.

    This was the easiest time, the bottom of the order: the last three men, the pitcher, and Chapel relaxed just a bit, began to glide through it all with some music in the brain and the pitching all clockwork natural, machinelike, precise, more and more instinctive with each passing moment, his head doing all the work back there in the dark overconscious part of the brain while Chapel dreamed along, firing away, not quite so fast now, that was unnecessary, not trying to strike them out anymore but getting them to hit one soon, pop it up, ground it out, foul it, and so it went; no one
even got a fly into the outfield and the three were down. Chapel had a moment of splendid peace, warmth in the arm. A rare day. A fine day. All my life … this is what I was born to do. He sat … went back into the darkness.…

    … and saw his father, Pops, catcher’s mitt resting on the left knee. Twelve years old: Billy boy. Pop went out there with this big catcher’s mitt and he’d move it around, and wherever he moved it Billy would throw until he hit the mitt. First the right, then the left.… “Always keep ’em down, Billy, except the wasters. And throw them
fast
. That’s right. Keep
’em down
. If they have to go for ’em low like that they don’t hit ’em straight, you see what I mean? The higher you pitch ’em …” he held the glove up to his chest, “the easier you make it for them. Oh, you fake ’em
sometimes
. A little too high. Too far inside. But
never
right here” … in the center of the chest. “Never down the tube, Billy. You move that ball around and shave all the edges, hit the corners, inside outside, never give ’em a good one, a soft easy one. But don’t waste ’em too low, unless, well, now hit the
left
knee. Fastball, Billy. No need for the curve yet. When you’re older. You wait for the curve, when the arm is ready. Come on, Billy. Ah! That was great! Right on the money. Ah, kid, you’ve got a future. So help me God, you’ve got a natural-born.…”

… they went out on this dirt road out in the
woods, and Pop had picked this one straight part as long as the rubber to the plate would be, and a place where the road had a natural mound where it came round a curve in the trees, and he and Pops went out there to practice … and Billy grew up.…

… driving one day in the mountains … Pop with Mom in the front seat and Billy, the only child, always the only kid there, no brother, no sister, none ever, never knew why, too late to ask, and he was always in the backseat and they were talking about him thinking he was asleep and wouldn’t hear, but he heard, always to remember.

“Ah, lady love, but we’re lucky. Who else is so lucky? He’s such a good kid. Such a good sweet decent kid. And can he throw that ball. Godamighty, he’s a natural.”

“Oh he is. There’s something just, well, just
nice
in our boy. Wonder who he got it from?”

“Certainly not me. Couldn’t be me.”

“Oh, you. You’re … all right.”

“Can’t help wondering if sometime, if maybe God didn’t have somethin’ to do with it.”

Billy listened. Pop didn’t like church. Was against hell … and preachers.

Mom said: “Well, honey, you know, someday we maybe ought to let him just sit in at the church. People at school … some of the children laugh at him, you know.”

“Nope. No church. Not yet. Not for Billy. They
do nothin’ but hellfire and brimstone, scarin’ poor little kids to death, givin’ ’em nightmares on how
evil
they are just thinkin’—
no
. Billy don’t need none of that.”

“But Billy … you know lately … the boy is alone.”

Silence.

Pop: “He does love … the game.”

Mom: “Yes, but.…”

Pop: “Tell me this. Now tell me. Do you think he plays … just for me?”

Mom: “What? Land sakes.…”

Pop: “No. I mean it. I love the game myself. And Billy knows that. And he’s such a sweet kid. Do you think he goes out there … ’cause I want him to?”

Mom: “Now. Ridiculous.”

Pop: “Honest.”

Mom: “Well, maybe he started that way. Maybe it helps him. Yes. I think it does help him. The way you root for him. But you know and I know and now everybody knows, that boy is
good
at pitchin’. And he knows that, too. It’s … natural. And he’s lucky to have that. To be so good … as good as he is.”

“Ah, that he is. Oh, lady, isn’t he
somethin’
? You sit there watchin’ him and everybody gets still, because he’s in a class by himself and everybody knows it, he’s on his way.… Because you know what I feel? That little kid back there is gonna make us so proud … so proud.… And he wins
… you see him come home so happy. I hope to God.…”

Mom turned to check her sleeping son: Billy closed his eyes. She thought him asleep, tucked a blanket round him, put a warm touch to his forehead. He was never to forget that moment in the backseat, those words up front from Mom and Pop, from whom there had come a gentle childhood. Mom worried, Pop cursed … and they loved him. Chapel sitting on the bench in the dark felt a surge of emotion, opened his eyes. Goin’ Home, Goin’ Home.… But they’re not there anymore.

Nobody’s home anymore.

Carol’s goin’ home.

Carol’s gettin’ married.

He saw a Hawk batter strike out. Shucks. This here team … doesn’t hit much. At all.

Game is: nothing—nothing.

Gus was tapping him: time to go.

Gonna win this one. Gonna give ’em hell today. If only the folks … but maybe they know. Gee, if only they could be there, somewhere.