For Love of the Game (12 page)

Two more innings.

Rest. Drink the water. Eat some candy, ice cream.

He went to Gus and got the Babe Ruth that Gus always had sitting there, near cold water. He always chomped on candy in the late innings. He didn’t say a word. When Chapel came near everybody quieted. He went away again, sat alone.

All right: rest. Every bone, every muscle, the eyes. The brain. Send the resting signals down:
right leg, left leg, and on around. Pain only there, in the right arm. Better now. How much reserve?

No way to know. From the back of the brain … a slow dark signal from deep down there, way back where the dreams formed and much of the work was done. There’s not enough left, Billy Boy, Billy Boy. They’re going to get you.

Well then. He took a cool breath. Why don’t this team get a run? Just one. Even one. The salubrious effect, the message to the brain would spark all the way down. Learned long ago: you do the best you can. If they don’t score behind you it doesn’t help to get mad or sad or lifeless … and yet … strange thing … if they
do
 … if they only back you up.… But Durkee had gone to his reserve, was throwing all the best. The Hawks went down.

Bottom of the eighth.

Chapel waiting, just sitting as long as possible, before beginning the long walk out to the mound which was now dangerous. Things had changed. He had lost much of the power. They had been waiting all day for the golden time: it had come. Chapel went out … and began to hear from his own team: alive and ready for the brawl. Out there to win. They were all looking his way and yelling encouragement. Maxwell … did not come out. Maxwell did not say a word. Odd. Stood above the bench watching, waiting. There was real tension here now, almost as if the World Series was under way and this game was the heart of it—as if it was
one of the few games, the very few, out of all the long years of all the long games, the few that really and truly permanently mattered, and Chapel felt a choke in his chest. He had a team behind him. “Go Chappie go Chappie… !”

Somebody from the stands. Them, too? For
him
? What the hell.…

Gus was waiting at the mound. Ashen face. Twitching. Chapel, hazing a bit in the brain, looked at the scoreboard. Instinctive message, before he looked, come from that dark place there in the dreamy brain, the place that followed the game and knew it all.

No-hitter.

He focused on the board. Nothing-nothing. But the numbers behind that, under: Runs, Hits, Errors read clear and bright: Hawks: 0 Runs, 4 Hits, 0 Errors. Then underneath, for the Yanks: 0 Runs, 0 Hits, 0 Errors.

In the early innings … but this was the eighth.

Chapel said, aloud: “Gee whiz.”

Christopher, the shortstop, came running up to the mound. He had the ball in his hand, the one they’d been tossing around the infield. He had a wide-eyed, formal, very tight face, and he handed Chapel the ball, held his hand for a long moment, saying, through gritted teeth: “We gonna git ’em. We gonna git ’em. Anybody drops the ball, so help me Christ, I’ll kill ’em. Go ‘head, man, I’m right behind ya.”

He ran back to position, hopping, skipping. Manieri at third was crouching, pounding his glove with heavy punches, yelling something untranslatable. Italian? The man at second base stalked like a readying leopard.

Gus said: “Chappie? Listen. Joe Birch. Time for Joe Birch. What you wanna do?”

Eighth inning. Birch up for … third, or was it fourth time? Only third? He looked past Gus, saw Birch, standing, leaning slightly against his own bat, like a cane, motionless, looking out toward Chapel. Waiting. Chapel thought: know what? This is serious. It was as if he was waking up. All this was … clear and real. A well-developed picture … of a ball game. Chapel put a hand to the right arm, the shoulder.

Gus: “How you doin’, Ace?”

“Little tired.”

Gus nodded. “You got a right. Anybody got a right.” Pause. “Well, Chappie. It’s Birch. Whatya wanna do?”

Chapel blinked. What now? Nothing came.

Gus: “Listen, this guy’s always trouble. You never … lucky. How ’bout walkin’ him? Everything outside. Far away. So’s he can’t—”

“No,” Chapel said.

The umpire, Meyers, had begun to move slowly out toward the mound. No more delay. But he came slowly.

Gus said: “You’ve slowed a bit, Chappie. Just
enough for this guy to get you. Hell, let’s put him on.”

“Not today,” Chapel said. “Any other day … maybe … but today … Gus … ah … I can’t.”

Gus gulped, put out a hand, patted the ball in Chapel’s hand.

Chapel: “Gus, it’s the last time.”

Gus: “Right. Well. I’m with you, Boss. Throw … throw hard.”

He turned, started back toward the plate, met Meyers, who looked at Chapel and gave a friendly nod, and went back with him.

Alone on the mound.

No-hitter. That complicates things a bit.

Oh, hell, I’ve been here before. Dozens of times. They always get to you … in the late innings. Count on nothing. Gee, it would be nice. He shook his head. Think no more … of the heat of the sun. Think of ole Joe. Hiya Joe, watcha want? Joe had stepped into the box, was setting, as always, with that patient wait for the coming explosion. Well. May never do this again. No time for caution. Go out with pride, Billy. Only way. He set himself, summoned up strength, leaned on into it, and threw the fastest pitch he was capable of throwing. Strike one.

Pain burned the shoulder. Joe looked back in surprise, shook his head, backed out, came back again. Chapel could hear the crowd beginning to scream. Distracting. He stopped, took a long
breath, then did it all again, gave it everything again, and it blazed. Joe swung and missed. Too late.

Chapel: one more. If I get Joe this time … I’ll go home happy.

Joe knew it was coming. He stood for a moment in doubt, searching Chapel’s stance, setting himself for a fraction of a second without certainty, and so Chapel did it again, the last time, and it went right on by and he swung late, not believing in what he saw, and he was out of there and Chapel felt a spasm of great joy, great pain, and backed off the mound to breathe and rest and thank God.

The infield was pitching the ball around and Gus came out.

“Wow.” Shook his head. “I tell you. Listen. How’s the arm?”

“What difference does it make?”

Gus looked, nodded.

“Okay, Boss. They can’t … they can’t touch you.”

Chapel got the next two. The arm was beginning to burn, but it was working perfectly. Don’t much matter now. Medicine tonight, no pain tonight, take a long rest … yes, a long long rest, he promised the arm that, and so gave it all he had, and one popped up, but the last one caught the ball and hit a liner to deep center, the hardest hit ball of the day, but it was not far enough, and too high, and
Johnson drifted easily gracefully under it and tucked it in, put it away, and the eighth was done.

A long way to the bench now. The crowd had quieted, was watching him: he felt the eyes. One more to go. Last inning. Last day.

Don’t think of that. Just three more. Think of them. But … all will be pinch hitters. Maybe not. Think of … Carol. Is she watching this? On the TV tube? I hope she is. I hope I get those three. Oh, God, if I get those three …

Now at the bench no one would talk to him at all. They moved away into a bunch and rattled to themselves. No-hitter. It was the code. Don’t mention the words. Magic words. But all aware. Shut up. Play with the heart, not the arm. Because the arm, old buddy, is a-weary. Goin’ away for to leave you … not
you
.

He touched then held the aching arm.

Three more. Just those three. Can you do it?

You can do it.

Well at least old friend I’ll give it a hell of a try.

He sat. Blank the mind. Push the button, as you do in a computer. Blank it all. Rest. But he had been concentrating all that day on each hitter as he came, one man at a time in total concentration, and now that had changed, it was no longer one hitter to be faced; the game had come alive, the world round him had begun to breathe, was
real
now in an awakened way, and so finally he realized the thing that was happening. It came out of that
black darkness in the rear of the brain, intruded into the clear light of day. He thought:
can’t be
.

He sat up, straight up. Turned, saw Gus. Gus was chewing on a fingernail: an unusual thing for him to do. There came a sudden tremendous roar from the crowd: the bench erupted. Chapel turned: Christopher had hit one: going, going, Christopher had rounded first, on to second, the ball hit the wall, high up, careened, Christopher rounded second and headed for third. Chapel began to scream, first time in years: “Make it, man, make it, gotta make it,
slide!
” Christopher hit the dirt, made it easily, safely, was in with a triple. The whole bench was ecstatic, was moving out in front of the dugout, roar from the crowd was gigantic, even the home crowd, very rare, very rare. Christopher had tripled. Chapel searched the board. One out. He could score on a fly. Please God. The old pro, Christopher. Under pressure, he does it. Maybe I can.… We’re going to get one. He started clapping his hands. Maxwell was hopping back and forth, yelling to people. Pinch-hitter?

Out there was: the Dutchman. Chapel heard Gus screaming: “Get it out of here! Get it
out of here
! Lift it, lift it, lift it!” Chapel came up next to him, tapped his arm; Gus turned, blanched.

“Go ’way and sit down, dammit. Rest, rest.”

“Gus?”

But Gus went yelling to the Dutchman to hit it—and the Dutchman did. Long fly ball. Durkee had
tired enough, just enough. A fly to the far right. There’ll be time. Christopher had tagged. The fly was caught—too far away for hope for them … Christopher came home and scored.

The elation of the team was the same as … a long time ago. The past was briefly back. Ahead now. Score: 1–0. “Gonna beat the Yanks!”

“We got ’em, we got ’em. You, Chappie, sit down! We gonna get ’em!”

He sat. Ah. Have not felt this way … if I can hold three more …

Gus was putting on the gear.

Chapel: who’s coming up? Bottom of the line. Last three. So. Will be pinch hitters. All three. Who the hell? Brain a haze, no memory came. Clear the head, old pro. The arm slowed on that last one or he’d never have hit it to center field. How much … time do you have?

Then came back the slow cold clear message:

Nobody on base.

At all, at all.

Third out came. The team was moving out, yelling to him, at themselves. Chapel stood.

Thought: may well be the last time I ever do … stand here.

No one on base? For eight innings.

He started the long walk. He said slowly, to himself, to the arm: one more time: Kid, you do your best, you can get any three guys that ever lived.

There was Gus at the mound. Chapel said, smiling: “Howdy.”

There was Christopher, white-faced. Chapel said: “Thanks, ole buddy. Appreciate it.”

Christopher, as intense now as Chapel had ever seen him, said through those gritted teeth: “Listen, you … you … but if I drop the ball myself, so help me, I’ll kill myself. You … give it to ’em, Chappie.”

He was gone.

It was quieting. Quieter and quieter, all over the field and the stands. They were beginning just to sit silently and watch. Very few cheers. Silent sound in the quiet air. Gus stood there just looking at him.

Chapel said: “Gus? How many have they got on base.”

Gus sort of shuddered. He said: “Nobody.”

“Oh, I wasn’t sure.”

“Didn’t think you were. But everybody else …”

A perfect game.

Chapel: “This I haven’t seen much of.”

Gus: “Me neither.”

After a moment Gus said: “Chappie, I never have.”

“How many there been? How many guys ever pitched … ?”

Gus: “I don’t know.”

Chapel: “Six or eight. Maybe a few more. I
remember … Catfish Hunter. Few years ago. Larsen, at the World Series.”

Gus nodded. Meyers was waiting back there, but this time he did not come out to get the game moving, he was going to give Chapel all the time he needed.

Finally, Gus said: “Chappie, we’re all with you. All the way. You see the guys … you know. Three more to get. Only three. Throw anything. We’ll get ’em.”

“I’ve slowed down a little.”

Gus nodded. “Just a hair. Be careful.”

Chapel: “I think I may have thrown … all I’ve got.”

Gus put a hand out on his shoulder, squeezed.

“Buddy, you throw. We’ll take care. Whatever … go on, buddy, go all the way like you’ve done so far today and you can’t lose … never.”

He moved off.

Chapel was alone. With eighty thousand eyes on him. Well aware of that. Uncomfortable. Shrug it off. He did.

He backed off the mound, took off his cap, rubbed the sweating brow. No one on base at all. No walk, no hit, not even an error or anybody hit by a pitch. Nobody on at all. Nobody. So unusual a thing.… He looked up at the sky. Hadn’t prayed since childhood. Time for it now. He said to God: “Sir? In all my life … I never wanted something as much as I want these three. If you can help … 
I won’t be here again … you know how much I love … if you can help a little … just these three. I never asked before. But just these three. Please. I’d be obliged.”

He put his cap back on. His lips hadn’t moved, he was flushing and could feel it. Hope they didn’t see that. Well, does it matter? Nope. Nothing at all matters. Except the three guys comin’. Gonna get them. So help me God.

Saw the face of the first pinch hitter: Bum Neilsen. Does not hit well, but can hit the long ball. Why him now? Stupid. What they need now is a man on base. Ah … they think I’ve slowed, and he can hit the fastball. Very strong on the fastball. Well, no fastball. Dinky do sidearm, screwball best of all:

Two fouls. A pop up to third.

One down.

Jubilation behind him.

The right arm was going numb. Gus came out. Chapel saw Maxwell making signals to the outfield, moving them over. He did that when he knew Chapel had slowed and the hitters could begin getting in front of the ball and pulling it.

Gus said: “Who the hell’s this next guy? You know him?”