Authors: Peter Abrahams
The attendant frowned.
Gil gave him five more. His calculations depended on a quick getaway.
The attendant nodded and pocketed the money.
They were in their seats an hour before game time. On the field, the Sox were still taking BP. Rayburn was in the cage. He topped two pitches toward short, then lofted a fly to medium right. “Close enough for you?” Gil said. Richie looked around. “But how are we going to catch foul balls?” It was true: they were behind the screen and under the net.
“Maybe you could get some autographs instead,” Gil said.
“How?”
Gil pointed to the kids packed around the Sox dugout on the first-base side.
“I can go down there?”
“Why not?”
Gil bought Richie a program, gave him a pen, watched him make his way to the dugout. The players began coming off the field. The kids surged forward, hanging over the railing, waving programs, baseball cards, scraps of paper, shouting the players’ names. Richie tried to push through, was forced back, sat down hard on the steps.
“Don’t cry,” Gil said, but Richie was crying, Gil could see that even from where he was, two or three sections away. He hurried through the almost-empty rows of seats and down the aisle to Richie.
“Stop crying,” he said, raising Richie to his feet, feeling again how bony the boy was; lifting him was effortless.
Richie wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t want any autographs.”
“Sure you do.” Gil took Richie’s hand, pushed through the shouting kids to the rail, towing Richie behind him.
And there was Rayburn, so close he could have touched him. He was big, but not as big as Gil. His white home uniform shone in the sun. Rayburn was signing autographs; he looked at no one and didn’t say a word, just wrote rapidly, while his body leaned almost imperceptibly toward the dugout, as though drawn by gravity. He had a fresh tan, except for pale semicircles under his eyes; but hadn’t shaved that day, and there was a blackhead on the side of his nose.
Gil could smell that coconut shampoo he used in the ads, and a faint odor of sweat, although there wasn’t a bead of it on his face.
Gil squeezed Richie forward, against the rail. Richie stood there, hands at his sides, eyes open wide. “Ask him,” Gil said.
“Autograph,” said Richie, the word barely audible even to Gil.
Rayburn signed someone’s scorecard, took a step or two toward the dugout.
“Not like that,” Gil said. “Louder. ‘Can I have your autograph, please?’ ”
Richie raised his voice. “Can I have your autograph, please?”
“ ‘Mr. Rayburn.’ ”
“Mr. Rayburn?”
Rayburn spoke. “That’s it,” he said, and ignoring the pens, pencils, and programs waving in his face, and the cries of “Please!” began moving away.
Gil leaned over the rail. “Hey, come on, Bobby,” he said, perhaps too loudly. “Sign one for the kid.”
Rayburn paused on the top step. His eyes met Gil’s. “You don’t look like a kid to me, Slugger,” he said, and ducked into the dugout.
Gil felt his face go hot. At first, he was aware of nothing else. Then he heard the stadium buzzing all around him. And finally felt the damp little hand in his. He looked down.
“Dad?”
“What is it?”
“How come he’s so mean?”
He let go of Richie’s hand. “When are you going to grow up?”
Richie’s eyes filled with tears.
“Don’t cry, for Christ’s sake,” Gil said. “He has to get ready, that’s all.”
“But he’s got all his stuff on.”
“Mentally.”
“Mentally?”
“The game’s ninety percent mental. Don’t you know that yet?”
“Then I’m going to be good,” Richie said. “I’m getting straight A’s.”
They bought food—hot dogs, onion rings, Coke for Richie, beer for Gil—and took their seats. The ballpark, hung with bunting, soon filled to capacity, kept buzzing. The players were introduced one by one. The marine color guard played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Then the president of the United States came out and threw the first ball into the dirt. Odell backhanded it smoothly, ran out to the mound, shook the president’s hand. The president laughed at something Odell said, and walked off the field, waving and smiling, to cheers and boos; and all the time that buzz in the background never went away.
The starters ran onto the field; even Boyle, the pitcher, couldn’t quite slow himself down to a walk. He took his warm-ups. Odell threw the last one down to Primo, covering second. The umpire called, “Play,” in a voice that surprised Gil by how high it was, almost female. The batter stepped in. Socko the mascot danced madly on the home-team dugout. Buzzing turned to roaring.
The first pitch was a ball, low. Gil checked his watch. 1:14. Running late already. He went over the calculations one more time: five minutes to the car, fifteen minutes to Everest and Co., five minutes for parking. It meant leaving at 2:05 at the latest.
Ball two, high and inside.
Then half an hour, tops, with the VP, and twenty-five minutes of driving and parking in order to be back in his seat before 3:30, to catch the last two innings—maybe even more, the way they played these days.
Ball three.
“Did you see that curve?” Richie said.
“Just missed.”
“I could really see it.”
Gil wasn’t sure what Richie meant. Was he referring to his eyesight? He gazed down at the boy.
“These seats are great, Dad.”
“Oh,” said Gil. He tried putting his arm around Richie. A white-haired woman in the next seat smiled at them. She wore pearls and a Harvard baseball cap. Opening Day, a beauty, and the Sox were back.
Strike one.
It was 1:36 when Primo led off the home half of the first. He lined the first pitch over the second baseman’s head; clean single. But Primo took the turn at first and kept going. The crowd rose, Gil and Richie too. The throw from right field was on the money. Primo slid headfirst, reaching for the bag. Cloud of dust. Safe. The crowd roared, Gil and Richie too; Richie even jumped up and down a little. He had mustard on his nose. Gil wiped it off with his hand.
“Don’t,” Richie said.
Lanz flied to left, not advancing the runner. Rayburn came to the plate. The crowd rose in welcome, Gil too, but not Richie.
“Why are you clapping?” Richie said. “He’s mean.”
“I explained all that.” Gil stayed on his feet, but he stopped clapping. Still, he thought: bang one, Bobby, bang one. He could stop clapping, but he couldn’t stop his mind from thinking that. Rayburn took his sweet swing and popped to the catcher in foul territory. 1:47.
At the end of the inning, Richie said, “Where are the souvenirs?”
“Like what?”
“Those little bats.”
“Down below.”
“Can I go? Mom gave me some money.”
“Forget that,” said Gil. “You’re with me.”
He went down the ramp, first to the urinals, then to the souvenir stand for the bat. They sold posters too. Gil put his hand on Odell’s, on Boyle’s, on Zamora’s. Someone in the
line behind him grew restless. Gil bought the poster of Bobby Rayburn. Quick stop for beers, and back to his seat. Richie was helping himself to peanuts offered by the woman in the Harvard cap and the Sox were batting again.
“What a nice boy you’ve got,” said the woman.
“What happened?”
“Happened?” said the woman.
Gil gestured toward the field, spilling a little beer.
“Quick inning,” she said. She handed the bag of peanuts to Richie. “You keep these,” she said, and turned to the diamond.
“Here,” said Gil.
“Thanks.” Richie put the bat and the poster on the seat beside him. Gil checked the time. 1:59.
“Having fun?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got to go for a little while,” Gil said.
“Go?”
“Just make some calls. You sit tight. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you have to pee or anything?”
“No.”
“Good.” He patted Richie’s shoulder. 2:01. Down on the field, the Sox had something going. First and second, nobody out. A sac bunt. 2:04. He could get to the car in three minutes or less, if he ran. Base on balls to Primo. 2:08. He didn’t need five minutes for parking; he could doublepark if necessary. Lanz went to a full count, fouled off the next pitch. Socko raised his huge three-fingered hands to the heavens.
“Come on, come on,” Gil shouted.
Lanz fouled off three more before striking out. Socko rolled over and died on the dugout roof. Gil hated mascots.
2:14. Rayburn walked in from the on-deck circle, entered the batter’s box. The pitcher toed the rubber. Rayburn stepped out, knocked the dirt from his cleats.
“Jesus Christ, let’s go,” Gil shouted, barely conscious of the Harvard woman’s eyes on him.
Ball one, outside.
Rayburn stepped out again. 2:16.
“Down in front, down in front.”
Strike one, swinging. Rayburn glanced back at the umpire.
“Down in front.” Gil felt a tug on his jacket, realized he was standing, sat.
Ball two. 2:18. Rayburn tapped his cleats again.
“Let’s go, let’s go.”
“Down in front.” Another tug. Gil wheeled around, spilling more beer, this time down his shirt.
“Get your hands off me,” he said to the man sitting behind him.
“How am I supposed to see?”
“Just ask politely,” Gil said, feeling the weight of the thrower around his leg.
“I did.”
“Down in front, down in front,” yelled someone else.
Gil heard the ball smack leather, turned to see the catcher throwing back to the pitcher. Strike two. 2:19.
Then came a ball, a foul, another foul. Rayburn stepped out.
“For fuck sake.”
“Down in front.”
The stadium buzzed, louder and louder, beer seeped down his shirt. 2:23. He gazed at the numbers on his watch, and their meaning penetrated. All at once, his tie felt too tight and his heart began to race. He knew the meaning of 2:23: Move, asshole.
Gil pushed past Richie, past the Harvard woman’s stare, into the aisle. By the time he reached the ramp, he was running. He ran through the darkness under the stands, loosening his tie, pumping like a sprinter. A tremendous roar went up from the crowd. The whole stadium shook. The vibration came up from the cement floor, through the soles of Gil’s shoes, into his body.
T
hree strikes.
One: the parking lot, 2:34. Gil, breathless, ran up to the ticket booth, loosening his lucky tie, feeling beery dampness on the fabric. He checked for the 325i in the front row—hadn’t he said, “Keep it unblocked,” and tipped the son of a bitch ten dollars? But the car wasn’t there. Gil saw that at once, and then saw it again slowly, scanning the row car by car. His head filled with interrogative noise: was this a different lot? Had he left by the wrong gate? Had his instructions been somehow unclear? Then he spotted it, in the very last row. The noise level inside his head rose, although outside his head the city seemed uncommonly quiet, as though it were Christmas Day; a bleak Christmas Day, with luck no longer in the air. He pounded on the side of the ticket booth, but the pounding made sounds weak and muffled to his ear, so he pounded harder. The attendant, reading a book in an alphabet Gil didn’t know, looked up in surprise through the open door.
“Sir?” he said.
Pakistani or some damned thing. Gil hadn’t even noticed before. He couldn’t patch together a sentence out of the noisy fragments spinning in his head. All that came out of his mouth was, “My fucking car.”
“Sir?” said the attendant, half rising, closing the book but retaining his place in its foreign pages with his foreign finger.
It struck Gil then that the little bastard probably didn’t understand English, had taken the ten bucks without grasping a word he’d said. An innocent mistake, maybe, but it
maddened him all the same: he had no time for mistakes, no time for translation. He took the attendant by the shoulder and pulled him outside, a little roughly, perhaps. Pointing with his free hand, Gil said, “Is that what they call unblocked where you come from, Slugger?”
“But, sir,” said the attendant in English only slightly accented, “it is.”
Gil let go. The attendant went to the back of the lot, unlocked a gate that Gil hadn’t noticed, swung it open. Then he got into the 325i, backed smoothly into the alley, swung around the lot, and came to a stop on the street, right next to Gil.
He got out. Gil got in, slammed the door.
“Do you wish a receipt?” asked the attendant.
Almost no accent, and he spoke a fancier English than Gil’s. Gil didn’t reply. He just floored it, glancing back once, to see the attendant’s dark and watchful image shrinking in his rearview mirror.
Two: in the tunnel, 2:51. Stop and go.
“Come on, come on.”
And without warning, Gil had to piss, bad. He squirmed in his seat, unbuckled his seat belt, looked around for a place to pull over. But there was nowhere: even the breakdown lane was jammed. Gil honked his horn, just like those asshole drivers he couldn’t stand; and someone honked back, long and hard, blaring through the normal tunnel din.
“Come on, come on.”
Long lines of brake lights flashed on, reddening the gloom. Traffic stopped.
2:51.
2:52.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Gil said, rocking back and forth. So late; he should have been rehearsing his excuse, but all he could think of was the pressure building in his bladder. He unbuckled his belt. That helped a little.
2:53.
2:54.
2:55.
Still stuck deep inside the tunnel, and rocking again. Frantic to get to Everest and Co., frantic to piss. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” Gil put his hand on his crotch, squeezed the end of his cock through his suit pants. A mistake. His bladder, or some muscle or whatever it was, abruptly felt free to just let go, so nothing was holding in all that piss but the clamping of his hand. At that moment, traffic jerked forward and started rolling. But Gil couldn’t move before shifting into first, and he needed his hand for that. He let go and piss shot out of him, hot and uncontrollable, was still flowing as he banged through the gears and bumped up out of the tunnel and into bright light, feeling nothing at first except dumb relief. But: leather seat soaked, suit pants soaked, executive-length socks soaked, piss in his shoes, cooling fast. The noise in his head grew louder.