For Love of the Game (3 page)

Chapel cut it.

Stillness.

Empty inside. Nothing there. Head gone empty.

Song was: “The Blue Tail Fly.”

He heard Gus swear. Chapel looked up vacantly, smiled, seeing nothing. Remembered the Old
Man, smoking a big fat brown smoky cigar: “Billy, goddammit, one of these days, goddammit, you got to grow up and play for
money
, like they all do. All them little bastards.”

Chapel nodded. But … I never did.

And now … seventeen years with one team. Signed … on the front porch with the Old Man and Pop all those years ago … vision blurred. Ah, but the Old Man loved the game, and Pop loved the game, and I loved it so … and every year, the Old Man did the best he could … in the office, the round, frowning face: “Billy, kid, this is the best I can do. But you are the best no matter what I do. But I can’t do better. But if this
bothers you
, Billy, if it ain’t enough, you tell me, and I’ll try, so help me, I’ll borrow someplace. Billy, what do you want?”

The Old Man is gone.

What do you want?

Knew this day would come.

Did you?

Yep. But. Well.

It’s come.

Yep.

Chapel had seen this coming, knew it was coming, and had planned nothing, nothing at all.

Ross was watching. No questions. He turned to Gus, eyed, calculated.

“You Gus Osinski, right? The catcher?”

“Yep.”

“You’re hitting, ah.” Ross put a finger to his
nose, a famous position of mind packed with filed numbers. “You’re hitting right now … 206. Am I right?”

Gus grunted. “Close enough.”

Ross smiled, blinked, his mind moving along, rounding bends, from Gus to Billy and back. Ross said: “You know the point, Gus. They’ll say to the home fans he’s over the hill. Look at the record this last year.…”

“Look at the club behind him. Look at
that
batting average. That bunch can’t hit as good as
me
.”

“I know. But the records, the numbers … and his
name
. Seventeen years with the same club. The novelty of it. To have Billy Chapel on the mound for … 
them
, whoever the hell they are, maybe LA, maybe the Giants. They’ll pack ’em in out there for a while, just to see him, root for him. Even if only a few innings at a time.… Even if only in relief.…”

“Billy? In relief? Ha. Not him. Never.
Never
.”

“He won’t go. You don’t think so.” Ross turned back to Chapel. Billy sat there, no expression at all, drinking coffee. Ross came forward, stood in front of him. His speech was faster now, more intense: he was getting to the point.

“Billy, I came here because I thought I owed it to you. Now, I
do
”—he put out both hands—“I know that in ways you never will. So. I thought I could let you know this thing in private, away from the crowd, the way they’ve done it so often. I didn’t
want to see you, Billy, with them asking all those questions in public. So.” Pause. “I came up as fast as I could.” Pause. “And now you know the facts. You know what they want to do. But, Billy … I have a
hunch
.” He cocked a finger, like a man about to pull the trigger on an invisible gun. He smiled a strange, soft smile. “Billy Boy, Chappie, you’re the best I ever saw. I don’t say this for publicity. No cameras watching. But I want you to know what I think. After seventeen years … Billy, you’re the best.” Pause. He had said something that to him was very important and very unusual. Then his face recovered, and there came back that crafty natural grin. “So. You are the best. And when a man like you is truly the best and knows it, like Ted Williams knew it, and DiMaggio, and a few of the golden boys, there comes that special
pride
.” Pause. Smile. “I think I’ve got you figured, Billy, but … who knows? Still … I’ve got this guess. You have been traded to another team after seventeen years with the Hawks … one place, one home, and now they’ve let you go; no, they’ve thrown you away. They do that to all the big boys sooner or later. Hell, they did it to Babe Ruth, to make money, and he went, and Willie Mays, and Maury Wills. And most of them … they go on playing. But, Billy”—he leaned forward now, face coming in closer to Billy’s face, eyes there boring into Billy’s eyes—“with you, Billy, I think it could be different. Some of the guys didn’t go. There
were guys like Williams, and Joltin’ Joe. They had the pride. When they were done,
they were done
. Isn’t that so? You know it like I do, yes you do, Billy, you know the pride. When they were done, when there was the first flaw, when the leg didn’t quite work anymore for Joe or Williams wasn’t exactly the best anymore, as soon as the hints were there, even the
hints
, they would play no more. They were done. They would take no trade. Willie Mays … Willie, I saw him out there one day, drop a fly ball. Tears in his eyes. But he had to go on. Some guys love it that way, the pride doesn’t matter. Some guys, just the money. But you, Billy … well. Will you tell me? Are you done? Or will you go on to another team? What’ll it be?”

Chapel sat for a long moment in a silent room without any motion. Ross couldn’t wait. He said: “I came to you with the news, to break it to you as a favor.”

Chapel nodded, said nothing.

“Now, Billy, will you do this for me, will you tell me what you’re going to do? Can you tell me now? Because Billy, now that you know, I’ll tell you this: I’ve got a hunch. A big hunch. It will make big good news. Billy, I don’t think you’ll go. I think you’re done.” Pause. Silence. “Am I right?”

Chapel didn’t want to sit anymore, didn’t want to talk. He stood up rubbing his face. He said: “Shave, I think. Excuse me.”

He walked away. Ross said nothing. Chapel went
into the bathroom and closed the door. He felt pain and darkness for the first time. Hit very hard. He went mechanically to the mirror and looked into it and did not see himself as he began to soap his face. He thought no words. For a moment he saw the happy face of his father, Pops, pounding a hand in the catcher’s mitt they had practiced with when Billy was a pup, and he
heard
Pop’s voice: “Come on, Billy! Throw hard now, Billy Boy!” He began slowly to shave. Softly, the old folk song: “Oh where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Oh where have you been, charming Billy?”

First thought: I guess he’s right.

Chapel stopped shaving.

Time to go home.

Play no more?

At all, at all?

“What, never? Thou’ll come no more, never?”

This … is a hell of a day.

He tried to clear the mind but it wouldn’t clear, wouldn’t think. He finished shaving, stood there by the door, not wanting to go back in to talk to Ross. One more moment. He heard Ross’s voice:

“…    for four years with that man, right? Yes, I know, you’ve been traded yourself, what, three times? Not the same thing for you, is it? But him? Listen, you’ve been catching Chapel for four years. You know him like nobody else. What do you think? Go ahead, give it straight. You think he’s over the hill?”

Gus’s voice, sudden and harsh:

“Horseshit! Ole Chappie? Over the hill? Pure horseshit! Listen, ace, you try and catch him yourself, first few innings. Hail Mary. Give him to anybody. Then stand back. He is … he is still the
fastest
I ever saw, and along with that the control. My God, near perfect. He does it all. Shit, he can thread needles with bullets. With any kind of team at all … hell, he still holds half the records. Christ, you know that. And he’s thirty-seven. So what? Only problem is he … he just doesn’t last as long as he used to. He tires earlier. A little like Ole Bobby Feller.
He
wasn’t before your time, you remember him. Christ, if baseball was a game only lasted six innings nobody ever would have beaten that guy. But he tired … a little too soon. And Billy’s now that way. In the beginning, nobody hits him. Those first few innings, God Almighty … he was always the best. He’s
still
the best. Hell. Ask anybody. Anybody who has to go up against him.”

Pause.

Ross said: “So. Agreed. But. What do you think he’ll do?”

“Ah. I don’t know.”

“You think he’ll go play on the Coast because he loves the game? Because he never really played for the money?”

“Don’t know.”

“What would you do?”

“Me? Why the hell ask me?”

“What would you do?”

“I been traded … enough. Makes no more difference to me. To a lot of guys. So. I’d go. Just to play some more.”

“Yes. And so would almost everybody. But Billy.…”

Chapel opened the door, came out into the room.

Ross: “Well, Billy?”

Chapel shook his head.

Ross: “Billy Boy, Billy Boy, how can you quit?”

Chapel looked round for his jacket. Go for a walk. Ole buddy.

Ross: “What about you pitchin’ … today?”

Chapel stopped.

Ross: “They have you scheduled for today. Nobody’s supposed to know. But … what do you do now?”

Chapel saw the jacket, picked it up.

The phone rang. Gus was there, lifted it quickly.

“Hello hello. Listen.… What? Jesus.” He looked wide-eyed at Chapel. “Hey, man. It’s Carol.” Pause. “What do I do?”

Chapel went for the phone, hand extended. He said: “Hello?”

Soft, breathy voice: “Billy?”

“Yep.”

“This is me.”

Carol. Where?

“Hi,” Chapel said.

“I’m over in the park. Cross the way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Billy?”

“Yep.”

“I’m over by the fountain. I’ve been there looking up at your window.”

Pause. Ross was tapping fingers on top of the couch; Gus was signaling him to shut up, finger at the lips.

Carol: “You know the fountain. The one you can … almost see me from your window.”

“Oh, yeah. I know.”

“Well. I … didn’t want to come up there this morning. I’m sorry. Last night was … bad. Well. I just quit my job. I’m leaving town. But before I go … would you talk to me for a minute? Would you come down here and talk to me? The crowd over there … Would you do that? Please?”

“Oh, sure,” Chapel said.

“You will? Oh … thank you. I’ll … when will you be here? I can wait.”

Chapel: “Be right there. A few minutes.”

He put down the phone. Dazzled brain. Glad she called. Got to talk. What to wear? Got the jacket. Fine.

Ross was saying: “Billy, there’s not a hell of a lot of time. What are you gonna do?”

Chapel: “I’m goin’ down to the park.”

Ross: “Are you gonna pitch today?”

Gus: “Carol. Good thing, buddy. Hope it works.”

Knock on the door: Chapel opened it: the blue-clad stewardess: Bobbie, Gus’s girl. Dark-haired, slim, trim. She gave Chapel a lovely smile.

“Hi there.”

Chapel started out by her. Ross came, caught his shoulder.

“Billy, dammit, I need to know. There’s just no time.”

Chapel: “I’ll let you know. But I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll see you at the ballpark. By that time, maybe.…”

But Ross hung on to him:

“Billy, I think you’ve got the pride. I don’t think you’ll go. Not anywhere. I think you’re through, Billy. I think it’s all over.”

Chapel turned, looked at the round white face. Moment of silence. Then Chapel said: “You may be right.”

“Can I print that?”

Chapel closed his eyes. Then he said: “Just a little while. I’ll tell you … at the ballpark.”

He pulled away, started down the hall.

Ross said: “Billy, I did you a favor. Don’t you owe me?”

Chapel looked, paused, nodded. He said: “Soon as I can. I … appreciate it. But … well. See you.”

He went away down the hall. The last he heard was the voice of Bobbie:

“Hey. Did you find out? Do I have to tell everybody we’re married?”

T
HERE HAD BEEN
rain that morning, much rain; there were pools on the grass and a low gray misty sky, and Chapel thought: no ball game today? Solve everything. Thanks, Boss. Pack up tonight. Off to Colorado. Home.

As he came out of the hotel the doorman saw him and bawled aloud: “Hey, Mr. Chapel! You pitchin’ today? Jeez, I hope not.” Heads turned to look his way, but he hopped on across the street and into the park and there were very few people there in the morning, a few joggers, and Chapel jogged himself toward the fountain where Carol was waiting, splashing his way through cold puddles. He was very glad she had called. He did not know who or what was waiting. Met her four years ago, almost to the day, at that party: flashes now in the mind’s clear eye of that tall stately blonde on the far side of the room, one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, lighted up the magic lantern—what poem was that?—and they were to
kid about that sight across the room, the “crowded room,” one night while watching
South Pacific
on the late movie: “Some enchanted evening, you will see a stran-gerrr across a crrrrowded room. And somehow you know, you know even then—” And by God, it was true. She met what she called “the great one.” Not long after that one All-Star Game where he struck out the side with the bases loaded in that one great inning which made him as much of a celebrity as he was ever to be, and so she met him knowing that. She had never known ballplayers. Not the type. She was an educated, beautiful woman in the publishing business who had traveled widely overseas and spoke several languages, and who had married a rich and mean bastard and managed to stay married in pain for almost ten years and was now divorced, at that party perfectly, permanently free, and more or less permanently drunk. But drunk or not, witty and educated and cocky or not, she was genuinely funny. She laughed him into the wall. He began to have good moments with her—he saw them in her eyes. He saw the eyes lighten, sparkle, beautiful, steamy eyes. He remembered suggesting that he go find the ex-husband and “lean on him.” They went out and talked and went to bed and she passed out. He was odd in the morning, woke up looking down at her and feeling somewhat eerie. When she awoke she was—different. He was sorry she had been so mechanical. Lay there. So warm,
so chilly. There was a new thing in her eyes that morning, someone sober looking at him who he did not understand at all. He remembered her sudden voice: “I won’t do it again. I promise.”