Authors: Peter Abrahams
“Sure thing,” said the man in the blazer, knocking on the next door they came to.
“What is it?” came a voice.
“Visitors,” replied the old man. “Are you decent?”
“Decent as the next guy.”
The old man opened the door. They entered a little dressing room. Socko sat on a chair, wearing everything but his yellow head. He was in his early twenties, with long hair and several rings in each ear.
“Hi, Sean. How’s it going?”
“Can I put on the head?”
“Sure,” said Socko, giving it to him.
Sean put on the yellow head, looked in the mirror. “Oooo oooo,” he said in a scary voice.
Socko raised his enormous yellow hands; each with three fingers, like a cartoon character’s. “Don’t hurt me.”
“Oooo oooo,” said Sean.
Everyone laughed. Gil joined in.
Sean took off the head. “It’s hot in there.”
“No kidding,” said Socko. “I take water breaks every three innings.” Bottles of mineral water sat on the dressing table.
They went to their seats, in a glass-faced box high over first base. A waiter in a bow tie hurried to them. Sean ordered a hot dog, a pretzel, popcorn, and a Coke.
“Anything for you, sir?”
“Milk, if you’ve got it.”
“Whole, two percent, or skim?”
“Whole,” said Gil.
The game began. Bobby doubled down the right-field line in the first inning, driving in two runs. Socko danced on the
first-base dugout. There was a lot of noise in the box. “See what your daddy did?” said a man with a highball glass.
“RBIs forty-nine and fifty,” said Sean.
Everyone laughed. Gil joined in.
In the third inning, a woman appeared, knelt in the aisle beside Sean.
“Heard you were here,” she said. “Any more trouble from the Arcturians?”
“Nope,” said Sean. “This is Mr. Curly Onis. That’s what his friends call him. He mows the lawn.”
The woman looked at Gil. She seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
“Curly lives over the garage,” Sean added.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. “Jewel Stern.”
At that moment, the moment he learned who she was, Gil also placed her, standing by Boucicaut’s pickup in the alley behind the three-decker. A shudder went through him; her hand was still in his, but there was nothing he could do about it.
She let go, but tilted her head slightly, as though drawing a bead on something. “Enjoy the game,” she said. She tousled Sean’s hair, and then she was gone.
The Sox won nine-zip. Bobby Rayburn went 2 for 3 with two doubles, three RBIs, and a base on balls. After, the old man in the red blazer took them down to the clubhouse. It was a fan’s dream come true.
“Hey, there,” said Washington, spotting Sean. Soon he had the boy on his lap, was making a quarter disappear in his belly button and come out his ear. They were all there, Boyle, Lanz, Zamora, Odell, Simkins; loose and noisy, grabbing food from the buffet, drinks from the cooler: a fan’s dream come true.
Why do you think you ’re winning, assholes?
Gil stood by the door and didn’t say a word. He just watched.
Bobby drove the Jeep, Gil sat in the passenger seat, Sean, in back, fell asleep right away. Bobby yawned. “Have a good time?” he said.
“You were sitting on the fastball both times, weren’t you?” Gil replied.
“Sure, with Zamora on. He’s a threat to go anytime.” After a minute or two, Bobby added, “I thought you didn’t know anything about baseball.”
Safe from observation in the darkness, Gil felt himself redden with pride. How much prouder he would have felt to have heard those words from Bobby in some earlier time, even a month ago! But now everything was complicated by what he’d done for the team, by, yes, the sacrifice he’d made. And suddenly he understood, in sharpest possible focus, what he had done, and his role on the team. He’d given himself up, laid one down to advance the runner, sacrificed himself. The sacrifice: a subtlety of baseball that came with a stingy reward—it didn’t count against your average, that was all.
“I just said I didn’t follow it,” Gil replied. “I played at one time.”
There was a silence, the meaning of which Gil knew immediately: Bobby was waiting for Gil to place himself on the ladder.
“Drafted out of high school, as a matter of fact,” Gil said.
“What organization?”
“The Padres,” said Gil, because they were far away.
“Yeah? Were they around back then?”
Back then? What was that supposed to mean? He was only three years older than Bobby, and looked younger, if anything, didn’t he? Gil remained silent until he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Had a cup of coffee, as they say.”
Bobby nodded, as though he’d heard it many times.
“Hurt my arm.”
“You pitched?”
“Some.”
Bobby yawned again. “Val says you did a nice job on the lawn. Worked things out with Wald yet?”
“What things?”
Bobby shrugged. “I don’t know. Salary? Duties?”
“There won’t be a problem,” Gil said.
More silence. Gil’s mind drifted back to the sacrifice he’d
made in the steam bath of the Palacio Hotel. Bobby switched on the radio.
“Before we go to Jewel for the postgame, you’ve got an announcement for us, Norm.”
“Right, Bernie. JOC-Radio is putting together a panel drawn from our regular callers for a new weekly feature called
Between Brewskis.
”
“Between Brewskis?
”
“That’s what it says here. This’ll give some lucky listeners what they’ve always wanted—the chance to shoot off their mouths on a regular basis.”
“Just like us.”
“Or even more trenchant.”
“Trenchant?”
“Something to do with bad breath. So listen up—would the following callers please get in touch on the JOC business number during office hours: Manny from Allston, Donnie from Saugus, Ken from Brighton, Vin from the Back Bay, and Gil, who’s usually on his car phone.”
Gil jumped at the sound of his name. He checked Bobby out of the corner of his eye. Bobby was yawning again and didn’t seem to have noticed anything. How could he have missed it?
“So what have you got for us, Jewel?”
“Just another dominating performance by this team, Bernie. They’ve got it all going now—pitching, hitting, defense. Turned things around completely, as though the horrible events out West were some sort of wake-up call. They could have fallen apart instead, written this season off, and everyone would have understood, but for some reason they didn’t.”
“What could that reason be, Jewel?”
“I’ve given that a lot of thought, Norm, and I just can’t tell you. Part of it has to do with Bobby Rayburn, of course. I’ve never seen a hitter stay this hot this long. He simply picked up this team after Primo’s death and carried them on his back.”
“But he was in a slump all year, Jewel. How did he get himself out of it?”
“How do you get out of slumps, is that the question? If I knew the answer to that, Bernie, I’d—”
“—own the team, right?”
“I was going to say I’d start my own religion.”
Bobby laughed. Gil looked at him. He was leaning forward, face rapt. A glory hound, Gil realized. Rayburn was a glory hound: after all the years and years of hearing himself praised, he still couldn’t get enough. The problem was that this time the glory didn’t belong to Bobby—it belonged to him. Gil almost blurted the whole thing, right then.
“Let’s go to the phones. Here’s—”
Bobby switched it off. He was smiling to himself, as though thinking about something pleasant, maybe those two doubles.
Casually, like someone making conversation, Gil said: “How did you get yourself out of the slump, Bobby?”
“Who the hell knows?”
I do
. “There must be some explanation.”
“Oh, I’ve got an explanation, all right, but it doesn’t make much sense.”
“Try me.”
“I stopped caring.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I said it didn’t make sense.”
“You stopped caring?”
“About the game, how we did, how I did, everything. Especially that, how I did.”
“You think that’s how you got out of it—you stopped caring?”
“Until a better explanation comes along.”
“You stopped caring.”
“Right.”
“But how could you do a thing like that? You’ve got a chance to make the Hall of Fame.”
Bobby burst out laughing, as though Gil had surprised him with a witty observation. “Let’s just say I found religion.” He chuckled a few more times, then stopped abruptly. “I thought you didn’t follow the game.”
“Everyone knows about the Hall of Fame,” Gil said.
Bobby looked as though he was about to say more, but at that moment a Porsche whizzed by in the night, going the other way, and he said, “What’s Wald doing out here?”
“Managing things,” Gil said.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what he told me he did—managed things.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way, Bobby glancing at him once or twice.
Bobby carried Sean into the house. Val met them at the door.
“That was a quick game,” she said, taking the boy and starting up the stairs.
“Just a second,” Bobby said. “What was Wald doing here? He’s supposed to be in New York.”
“Chaz? What makes you think he was here?”
“I saw his car.”
“That was Philip. He drives one just like it.”
“Philip?”
“The architect, Bobby.” She went up the stairs.
When she was out of sight, Gil said: “Car of choice, for a certain type of guy.”
Bobby turned to him, then laughed. He’d been witty again. “How about a nightcap?” Bobby said. “And don’t say milk. I’m having a beer.”
“Beer’ll be fine,” Gil said. “But what I’d really like is tequila. Cuervo Gold, if you’ve got it.”
They sat by the pool: Bobby and Gil, with a sixpack of Heineken and a bottle of Cuervo Gold. Soft, starry, silent: a beautiful night.
“You married, Curly, or anything like that?” Bobby asked, cracking his second beer.
“Nothing like that,” Gil replied, thinking of Richie.
See you, Richie
. He was getting that cactus feeling inside again, but he refilled his glass anyway.
Bobby stretched out on a chaise, sighed, feeling good.
“Got a nice place here, Bobby,” Gil said.
“Not bad.”
Gil raised his glass to his mouth, found it was empty, took a hit from the bottle.
“You’re a lucky man,” he said.
“Lucky?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve worked pretty hard, Curly.”
“Taking BP? Shagging flies? Lying in the whirlpool?”
Easy, boy
, Gil thought.
But Bobby laughed again. “You’ve got a sense of humor, Curly.” He opened another beer, drank, closed his eyes. Gil watched him, and drank from the bottle, feeling the cactus growing inside him, watching. For a moment, he thought Bobby had fallen asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, Bobby spoke: “What kind of a pitcher were you, Curly?”
“First pick, every goddamn time.”
Bobby’s eyes opened. “I missed that.”
“I was good,” Gil said.
Bobby nodded.
“Fucking good.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“I still am. My arm’s stronger than ever, now that the soreness is all gone.”
“Yeah?” said Bobby, and closed his eyes again.
Gil took another hit from the bottle. He remembered how hard he’d thrown to Boucicaut in the woods, too hard even for Boucicaut to catch. And he had a wonderful idea, the kind of idea he never used to have, the kind of idea that accompanied this delayed coming into his own. Simple, daring: he would show Bobby Rayburn, just show him. It was perfect.
“Tell you something,” Gil said.
“What’s that, Curly?”
He took another drink. “Open your eyes.”
Bobby opened his eyes.
Gil looked right into them. “I don’t think you can hit me,” he said.
Gil felt a thrill when he said that. It reminded him of legends he had learned, of songs he had heard, of Steve
McQueen movies. It was the kind of simple, daring statement that made America great.
But Bobby didn’t get it, because he said, “Why would I want to hit you? You saved my kid’s life.”
His obtuseness maddened Gil, but he kept it inside. “I meant hit my pitching.”
Bobby laughed out loud; Gil realized he must have been witty again. Bobby quickly stifled the laugh, putting his hand over his mouth, like a girl.
Gil’s own hand was moving down his leg. He stopped it. “What’s so funny?” he said.
“Nothing. Sorry. I’m used to guys challenging me, in bars and stuff, but no one ever challenged me to hit off them.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Gil said.
Bobby shrugged. “Okay, if you really want to, someday.”
Gil rose. “Not someday. Now.”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
“It’s night, for one thing.”
“So turn on the floods.”
“And I don’t even know what equipment I’ve got out here.”
“Sounds to me like you’re looking for excuses,” Gil said.
Bobby drained his bottle, tossed it away. He rose too. “Sounds to me like you’re calling me chicken.”
They stared at each other
.
Yes, Gil thought: I’ve found the man inside, gotten to him, and he’s like any other guy
.
“Batter up,” Gil said.
He went to the apartment over the garage to get Bobby’s old glove, which he’d put under the bed. When he returned the floodlights were shining behind the house, and Bobby was standing on the lawn below the terrace, a bat in one hand, a bucket of balls in the other. They were at the foot of the slope; from there the lawn stretched flat to the beach.
Bobby handed him the bucket, motioned him toward the beach. “Pace off sixty feet,” he said. “If any get by me, they’ll just roll up the hill.”
Gil paced off sixty feet, thinking: if any get by you. He
turned, took a ball from the basket, toed an imaginary rubber. Bobby took his stance over an imaginary plate. The floods were on, but it wasn’t like playing under big-league lights. The lawn was dark and shadowy.
An advantage
, Gil thought,
that would compensate for his rustiness
.
“All set?” Gil said.
“You’ve got the ball, Slugger.”