Authors: Peter Abrahams
Bobby and Coach Cole drove off. “Kid’s got a future,” Coach Cole said.
“That’s not what you said before.”
“As a batting-practice pitcher. Smart, obedient, good-natured. Not many kids like that around anymore. Kids are the biggest assholes in the world these days. Everything’s upside down.”
“And the sweethearts are old guys like you?”
“Bull’s-eye,” said Coach Cole, blowing another bubble. “And as for you, you just wasted two Gs. Plus whatever you gave the kid.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there’s nothing wrong with you. Stance, preparation, swing—all perfect. Never looked better, and I checked tapes going right back to college.”
“Then how come I’m batting whatever the fuck it is I’m batting?”
“Can’t be seein’ it, that’s all. You might think you are, but you’re not. So either you need your eyes checked—”
“I did that already.”
“—or there’s something on your mind. Blockin’ you, if you get what I mean. In which case you don’t need me. And
you still wasted two Gs.” There was a silence. Then he added, “Plus whatever you paid the kid.”
Bobby drove back to the airport. Coach Cole got out of the car, paused. “I’ve seen a lot of guys go through slumps,” he said. “I mean a lot. And you know what the truth is?”
“What?”
“The truth is slumps are like zits. No matter what you do, they go away all by themselves, when they’re good and ready. Nothing changes that, not even the big bucks.” He closed the door and walked into the terminal.
A skycap knocked on the window before Bobby could pull away. Bobby slid it down an inch. The skycap lowered his mouth to the opening. “Hey, Bobby, how’s it goin’?”
Bobby grunted.
“How about an autograph? For my kid.”
Bobby nodded.
The skycap passed him a baggage tag. Bobby signed it, gave it back. “Wee-oo,” said the skycap.
Bobby spent the rest of the afternoon just driving, bothered by nobody, trying to think about nothing, then headed for the ballpark. The phone buzzed as he was turning into the players’ lot.
“No go,” said Wald.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they turned you down. Us down.”
“They turned down a hundred grand?”
“Yup.”
“But that’s what they wanted before.”
“I know.”
“They’re breaking their word.”
“So what are we going to do? Sue Primo?”
“It’s not funny.”
“I know that too.”
“Maybe you’re giving them the idea there’s something funny about this.”
“Now, Bobby—”
“Maybe that’s why we’re getting nowhere.”
“That’s not true, Bobby. I’ve been doing my very—”
“There’re other agents out there, you know.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then get it done. I want you to take this seriously.”
“I am taking it—”
“As seriously as you took that Moprin bullshit, for example. Is that too much to ask? I want that fucking number.” Boyle, pulling up alongside in his Lamborghini, was staring at him.
“How much am I authorized to offer?” Wald asked.
“Whatever it takes,” said Bobby, lowering his voice.
“Okay,” said Wald, “but there’s something you should understand.”
“What’s that?”
“He doesn’t have to do it at all.”
“Why not?” Bobby’s voice rose again.
“Because it’s his number, Bobby, that’s why.”
“It’s my number. Goddamn it, Chaz, whose side are you on? I was wearing it up in the show before he ever got off his stinking island—”
“But that was with another team, Bobby. On this team he—”
“—and he’s a banjo-hitting little shithead and I’m—” Bobby stopped, lowered his voice again. “I want my number, that’s all. Eleven.”
“I’ll do my best, Bobby. Call you after the game.”
Bobby went into the locker room. The first person he saw was Primo, diddling his Nintendo. Relax, he told himself. Release the tension from the core of every muscle, from the marrow of every bone, from the nucleus of every brain cell. Let go, let go, let go.
“The object is a baseball.”
“Excuse me?” said Stook, the equipment manager, coming over.
“I didn’t say anything,” Bobby said.
Stook nodded. “Got that order,” he said, and handed Bobby a package.
Bobby glanced around, saw that no one was watching, opened the package. Inside was a plain white T-shirt, size
XXL. Plain except for the number eleven, printed in red on the back.
“That do it?” Stook said.
“Thanks.” Bobby gave him a C-note.
Stook winked and went off. With his back to his stall, Bobby put on the T-shirt, then his sleeves, then his warm-up shirt. No number of any kind on the warm-up shirt. Just the secret number underneath. He felt good.
Not long after, Bobby was on the field, where the setting sun was splashing purple and gold all over the sky. Bobby gazed at the colors; maybe that kind of thing would help him relax. Lanz, shagging flies a few yards away, said: “Checking out the blonde?”
“What blonde?”
“In section thirty-three. With her tits hanging over the rail. She likes you.”
“How do you know that?” Bobby, looking at Lanz. Lanz had circles under his eyes. His average wasn’t much better than Bobby’s, and Burrows had dropped him down to six. Bobby was still batting third.
“ ’Cause she told me last night. She wanted your number.”
“My number?”
“Your phone number.”
“You didn’t give it to her, did you?”
“I don’t even know it.”
Bobby backpedaled a few steps and pulled down a soft liner.
Bobby was murderous again in BP, pounding drive after drive, feeling better and better. On the way into the clubhouse, he said to Lanz, “What’s her name?”
Lanz thought. “It’ll come to me.”
First time up, Bobby heard some boos. He’d been wondering when that would start. “Playin’ for forty thousand drunks,” said the catcher, a veteran Bobby had known for years. “I hate these Saturday-night games.”
“If you sniff real hard you can smell the urinals,” said the ump. “Let’s go.”
Bobby dug in. He knew the pitcher too, a marginal player who had spent most of last year in Triple A and was only up now because of injuries on the staff. He had a fastball that sank a little and a curve that sometimes broke sharply and sometimes stayed up; and that was it.
Bobby guessed curve on the first pitch, and got it. He picked up the topspin immediately, knew almost at the same time that it was going to hang, then swung, not from the heels, but under control, feeling that pull down the left leg and diagonally around the left side of his torso, the pull that always indicated proper form. And popped out to the second baseman.
More boos the next time. Again the curve on the first pitch, again hanging, and again Bobby was waiting for it. This time he watched it all the way, spinning down, seeing it with that coffee-table book clarity.
The object is a baseball
.
“Steeee,” said the ump.
Now he’ll try the fastball, Bobby thought. And it came, backspinning, up in the zone. Bobby took his rip, again smooth, controlled, perfectly coordinated. But this time, even as he swung, he was aware of something strange: something obtrusive, a shadow, a fog, that hadn’t been there on the pitch before.
“Two,” said the ump.
A fog? A shadow? Or was it simply a matter of blanking out when the pitch was on its way? Bobby picked up the next one right out of the pitcher’s hand, the fastball again, this time a better one, dropping an inch or two at the end. He saw it perfectly.
The ump rang him up.
“Jesus Christ,” said the catcher. “I really can smell the fuckin’ piss. This is gross.”
A fog? A shadow? A blanking out? Yes,
but only when he swung
. If he just watched it and didn’t swing he saw it perfectly. Bobby, hands on his knees in center field, remembered Coach Cole:
Can’t be seein’ it, that’s all. You might
think you are, but you’re not. So either you need your eyes checked or there’s something on your mind. Blockin’ you, if you get what I mean
.
Blocked. But only if he swung. Could it be true? In the bleachers a man screamed, “Rayburn, you fuckin’ thief!” Bobby couldn’t wait to bat again.
He came up in the seventh. Tie game, two out, no one on. New pitcher: a rookie Bobby had never seen. A rookie with heat. He threw Bobby four blazing pitches, none of them close. Bobby watched them all the way: coffee table. But that didn’t prove anything, he thought, taking his lead off first. He stole second on the next pitch. Washington flied out, and Bobby walked back into the dugout, thinking: blocked, but only if I swing? Could it be true?
He batted in the ninth, down by a run, with Primo on second, Zamora on first, nobody out. They gave him the bunt sign. Bobby was a number-three hitter. He hadn’t seen a bunt sign in years. He stepped out, looked down to third, got the bunt sign again. Bobby stared down at the third-base coach, watched him go through it one more time. Were they paying him whatever the hell number of millions it was to bunt?
“Why don’t you be more obvious about it?” said the catcher. The third baseman moved in toward the edge of the grass.
Bobby stepped back in. Never got the bunt sign, but he’d always been a good bunter. He could handle the bat.
The pitch. Fastball, high and tight, hardest pitch to bunt. Bobby pivoted with the bat head up, saw the ball coffee-table clear not halfway to the plate but all the way, and laid down a beauty, deadening it just right. The ball bumped and rolled lazily down the third-base line. There was nothing the third baseman could do but watch it roll foul, which it did, by an inch. The third baseman picked it up, and everyone went back a base, Primo to second, Zamora to first, Bobby to the plate.
They gave him the bunt sign again. In came another fastball high and tight, but this time a little too high, a little too tight. Bobby laid off.
“Steee,” said the ump.
Bobby gave him a look. The ump looked right back; that’s the way they were now, bitter assholes, every one.
Two strikes. They took off the bunt sign. The next pitch was a split-finger inside. Bobby watched it. Coffee table. Ball one. Then two more balls, both curves in the dirt, both coffee table. Full count.
Bobby had no idea what the next pitch would be. Nobody out: could be anything. Pitcher in the stretch. The pitch. Fastball, but with a little something funky on it. In the zone. Coffee table. Bobby went for it, and as he did the fog, the shadow, came from nowhere, or rather from right behind his eyes, and he missed the ball completely.
“Steee-ryyyy.”
Blocked, except for bunting. It was like cutting off his balls.
Washington walked. Sanchez flied out, not advancing the runners. Lanz K’d. Game over.
After, in the locker room, a little guy with glasses came up to Bobby. “Bobby?”
“Who the fuck—” And then Bobby recognized him—the community-relations guy. “What is it?”
“Call for you.”
“Did you screen it?”
“It’s Mr. Wald,” said the DCR, handing him a phone.
“Bobby?”
“Yeah?”
“Tough game.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s no go.”
“What do you mean?”
“Primo.”
“I know that. What do you mean?”
“No go. At any price.”
“There’s no such fucking thing. You told me yourself.”
“I’m just the messenger.”
Bobby clicked off. He showered and dressed. Blocked: and he knew why.
Primo was still in front of his stall, wrapped in a towel, beer can on the rug beside him, playing Nintendo. Bobby walked over. Primo kept his eyes on the screen.
“I think we should talk,” Bobby said. “No agents. No bullshit.”
“Talk,” said Primo, not looking up.
“Not here.”
Primo avoided a falling anvil and shot the head off an attacker who looked half man, half tulip. “You know Cleats?” he said.
“No.”
Primo told him how to get there.
Bobby went out to the players’ lot. The blonde whose name Lanz couldn’t remember spoke through the fence.
“Hi, Bobby,” she said.
“Gotta run,” he said. But he gave her a smile.
Bobby arrived at Cleats before Primo. There was a lineup. He was recognized right away and shown to the only empty table, in an alcove under the crossed bats of Aaron and Mays. There was one other table in the alcove. Two men sat at it, drinking beer and shots of some pale gold liquid that might have been tequila. They were both big, one in good shape, wearing a suit, the other fat and black-bearded, wearing a black-and-red-checked lumberman’s jacket. The cleanshaven one glanced at Bobby. His eyes glazed over; Bobby couldn’t tell if the man recognized him or not.
“What can I do for you, Bobby?” said the waitress.
Primo walked in, his Jheri-curled hair silvered in the rays of the big-screen TV.
“
H
ere’s a riddle,” Boucicaut said, walking into the trailer.
“I don’t like riddles,” Gil told him.
“You’ll like this one,” Boucicaut replied. “What’s the best thing about living in ski country?”
Gil thought.
“Give up?”
Gil nodded.
“No one thinks twice if you’re wearing a ski mask,” Boucicaut said, holding up two of them. “Get it?”
Gil didn’t answer—his mouth had suddenly gone dry. He got it, all right.
Boucicaut smiled. “Red or black?”
Gil shrugged, not wanting to commit himself out loud. Boucicaut tossed him the red one, tried on the black himself. “How do I look?” he asked.
Not safe.
Boucicaut was still smiling. With his face obscured, those misshapen teeth could have belonged to some other species.
It was all implicit after that. They left the 325i parked behind the trailer, took Boucicaut’s pickup instead, never discussing the reason why, but both knowing it. Both thinking silently together—like a longtime battery, like the battery they’d been.
The catcher is the father, the son is the pitcher
. Gil was beginning to understand what it meant. Everything felt right.
A sunny afternoon, sprouting green leaves on the trees, mud everywhere else. Boucicaut took the first shift at the
wheel. They were a good team and Gil was feeling right, but letting Boucicaut drive was a mistake. Boucicaut still drove like a kid. Flashing blue lights, and they were pulled over, not quite beyond the limits of the town.