The Dead Pull Hitter (5 page)

Sunday morning was grey, with rain in the air, and by eleven it had started to drizzle. When I got to the ballpark, the players were in a chapel meeting in the clubhouse—a weekly exercise in hypocrisy for half of them and evangelical overkill for the rest. I waited in the dugout, smoking cigarettes and reading the paper. I wanted to see Thorson before the game.

When the meeting broke up and the pious and pseudo-pious came out, I went into the clubhouse to find him. He was sitting by his locker, but when he saw me coming he got up and headed towards the hall, brushing past me on the way.

Steeling myself, I followed him, catching up in the hall.

“Sorry to bother you, Steve,” I said, ignoring his mood. “I’d like to talk for just a minute.”

He whirled around and glared.

“Can’t it wait until after I’ve pitched?”

“It will only take a few minutes.”

He folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

“I thought you said you and Sam Craven were through.”

“We are.”

“Not according to him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s in town. I met him last night.”

“He’s here?”

“He said you’d have everything straightened out by the end of the week.”

“That bastard.”

“He said he was corning to watch you pitch today.”

“I can’t talk about this horseshit. I’ve got to get ready to pitch.”

He went back into the dressing room as Moose Greer came out.

“What was that all about?”

“I think it might have something to do with my telling him that Sam Craven is in town.”

“Yeah. He called me for a ticket,” he said. “Listen, have you seen Sultan?”

“Not today. Hasn’t he showed up?”

“You know Sultan. There’s a right-hander pitching. He’s not scheduled to play.”

“Still, that’s cutting it a bit fine, even for him. Maybe he’s sick. He stood up a date at the Fillet last night.”

“He probably had a better offer. He’ll show up.”

I went back into the dressing room. It was full of players who would have been taking batting practice except for the rain. Instead, they were hanging around inside, full of nervous energy, playing cards or horsing around. There was an edge to all the activity, a tension. Voices were just a bit loud, the banter a bit forced. It was exciting.

I went to talk to Tiny.

“All ready for the big game?”

“I’ve been here before. Worry about the youngsters.”

“I just wish it was game time right now,” said Joe Kelsey, from the next locker. “I can’t stand the wait. I was up at six o’clock this morning.”

“You’re lucky,” said Eddie Carter. “I didn’t sleep at all. The baby was sick.”

Kelsey got up from the stool and wandered in his shower sandals to a table in the middle of the room, where he sat down and began signing baseballs.

“I feel like throwing up and I’m not even starting today,” said Doc Dudley. Flakey Patterson nodded his silent agreement vehemently.

“Flakey, you’re nuts. You haven’t got anything in your stomach to throw,” laughed Mark Griffin. “If we don’t win today, you’re going to get pretty hungry.”

He turned around and addressed the clubhouse at large, making grand gestures.

“All right, guys, listen up,” he said.

“Listen to yourself, rook,” shouted Stinger Swain.

“We can’t drag this thing out any longer,” Griffin said, ignoring him. “We’ve got to win it for our own Gipper, Mr. Phil Patterson Esquire. The man is starving.”

“Veronica could stand to lose a few pounds,” shouted Swain. “It might improve his pitching!”

Patterson looked mournfully at his tormentor.

“Might even make him normal!” chimed in David Sloane.

“Forget it,” laughed Gloves Gardiner. “That would be like the pope getting married.”

“Or Thorson getting humble,” said Swain.

Thorson’s sense of humour wasn’t his strong point, especially when he was the butt of the joke. He glared at Swain and left the room, pausing to speak softly to Joe Kelsey, who jumped to his feet, fists clenched. Eddie Carter jumped between them and led Kelsey away. Thorson went into the trainer’s room.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Tiny Washington in the sudden silence.

“Nothing, Tiny,” Kelsey said, shaking his head. “I’m a bit jumpy today. Let’s just get the darn thing over with.”

“What did he say?” I joined the group.

“Drop it, Kate. I don’t want this all over the papers.”

“Okay, so I won’t print it. Tell me what he said.”

“Just a crack about my glove. Forget it. I shouldn’t let him get to me.”

He walked away. Tiny and I went up the runway to the dugout. He looked out at the soggy field, gnawing on his thumbnail, a sure sign of his tension.

“I don’t like the way things feel this morning,” he said. “Everybody’s too tense. Damn Thorson.”

“He just won’t let up on Preacher,” I said. “But it’s not just Preacher. Everybody’s nervous when he’s pitching, these days. They’re so afraid to make mistakes they can’t relax and do their jobs. But what’s the big deal? You guys are professionals. You’re paid money to win games. One person can’t change that. Besides, he’s the best pitcher you’ve got.”

“You’re right. How come you’re so smart?”

He grinned and went back inside.

Red O’Brien was in the dugout, sitting by the water cooler with one foot up on the bench. He had a whole new audience of reporters and was loving the attention. Those of us who covered the team regularly had long ago stopped listening to him.

O’Brien wasn’t much of a manager. He had been one of the original Titans chosen in the expansion draft, an aging third baseman the Yankees could find no compelling reason to protect. But he was a favourite of Ted Ferguson’s so he had played a couple of seasons. When his playing career ended, he was sent to the Titan minor-league system to manage his way back to the big leagues. This was his first season as major-league manager, and there were those who jumped to the conclusion that his leadership had something to do with the team’s success. They were wrong.

But the reporters from Owen Sound and Thunder Bay didn’t know that. Nor, for that matter, did the ones from the American national magazines. O’Brien was young, he was colourful, and he’d been a Yankee.

“What about pressure, Red? Can your team handle it?”

The reporter looked to be about twenty, and nervous. Feeling the pressure, no doubt. O’Brien shifted his tobacco chaw in his right cheek, leaned sideways, and spat.

“An old manager of mine gave me one bit of advice when I took this job. He told me to play one game at a time. Well, that seemed like pretty good advice then, and it still does. We got lots of time to win two games. One, if the Yankees and Indians co-operate.”

“It’s a young team, though, Red. They’ve never been through it before. I’ve seen young teams fold under this kind of pressure.”

“I’m proud as can be of all my boys. If they’re looking for a most valuable player on this team, they’re not going to be able to give away a car. It’s gonna have to be a bus, because every man on this team deserves it. That’s what we are, a team. Each man makes his contribution, even on the bench, and I know that every one of them is pulling for everyone else.”

I wasn’t sure whether I was going to get the giggles or throw up, so I started for the press box. Christopher Morris joined me.

“The ol’ philosopher’s in good form today.”

“I think I’ve heard it all before.”

“Who hasn’t? Let’s get some lunch.”

Over lukewarm scrambled eggs and grey sausages, I told Christopher about my conversation with Thorson.

“Either Craven’s a good bluffer or Thorson hasn’t communicated with him very well. He seemed pretty calm about it last night.”

“Well, I wouldn’t play poker with the man. They going to get this game in today?”

“Probably. They can suck the water off this field in half an hour. One blessing of artificial turf, unless you happen to be a fan sitting in the rain. They never call games around here unless it’s really pouring.”

When we went into the press box, the Zamboni was indeed vacuuming the outfield while the ground crew took the tarpaulin off the infield. Players were playing catch in front of the dugouts, stretching, and running short sprints.

“The weather office says we’re clear for three hours,” said Moose Greer.

“Great. Just call down to the clubhouse and tell them to play fast.”

The press box was filling up, as were the stands. The fans filing down the aisles were crazy with anticipation. Some of the younger ones had painted their faces blue and white and waved grotesque giant foam fingers in the air and yelled stuff about being number one. The older fans were more sedate, some positively grim. They weren’t going to celebrate prematurely. The anthems were sung by a local barbershop quartet. It was rumoured that Ted Ferguson was having an affair with their publicist, so they sang the anthems a lot. We stood in the press box, continuing our conversations out of the sides of our mouths, anxious to get back to our keyboards. I was in my seat before the last “stand on guard” had finished reverberating.

“Got your game face on, Henry?” asked Jeff Glebe, the lead columnist on the
Planet,
wedging his long legs under the counter that served as a desk.

“Hey, I came to watch,” I said, “and I’m planning to give it 110 percent. I just hope I can stay within myself.”

The Titans ran on the field as the crowd roared. I focused my binoculars on each one in turn.

Tiny Washington was the first out of the dugout, waving to the crowd as he trotted to first base. Alex Jones was next, rookie nerves making his eyes huge. Then Stinger Swain, glowering fiercely. Billy Wise went to his place at shortstop calmly and stood grooming the dirt with his spikes.

The outfielders ran out together, then split three ways, like an aerobatics team in mid-display. Preacher Kelsey looked determined as he went to left field, phlegmatic David Sloane jogged to centre field as if he was out for a Sunday run in the park. Eddie Carter covered his nerves with a deceptive exuberance, detouring to chat with Washington, the first-base umpire, and Jones before getting to right field, where he exchanged quips with the fans in the stands.

After Gloves Gardiner strolled to his station behind home plate, the captain on the bridge of his ship, Steve Thorson came out of the runway and sprinted to the mound. The fans were on their feet cheering, and the players in the dugout joined the applause.

“Hardly exciting at all, eh, kid?”

Jeff is one of the few sportswriters I know who admits to enjoyment of the moment.

Thorson’s first pitch was a strike, a slider that barely nicked the inside corner. I sensed relief all over the stadium. Thorson had it.

Unfortunately, Ron Haskell, the Red Sox leadoff hitter, had it, too. He lashed a single to right field and promptly stole second.

Thorson picked up the resin bag just so he could throw it down in disgust. He glared at Gloves, even though Haskell had stolen the base on his delivery. There wasn’t a catcher in baseball who could have thrown Haskell out with the lead he had taken.

Thorson’s next pitch almost went by Gardiner, and the crowd began to stir uneasily. The third pitch was high, and Gardiner ran to the mound. The two consulted briefly and angrily. Gloves does not like being shown up. With a three and one count, I half expected them to walk Teddy Amaro to set up a double play, but Thorson came back with a fastball across the heart of the plate, which Amaro watched, and followed it with a changeup Amaro flailed at for the third strike.

I didn’t know the next player. Randy Slaughter was playing first in place of Dave Marsden, who had a bad knee. The media notes said he’d just been called up three days earlier. He was a nineteen-year-old who had never played higher than Double A ball. He hailed from Needle’s Eye, Virginia.

“Now there’s a thriving metropolis for you.”

“I bet the whole town’s watching the game,” Jeff said. “All four of them.”

“Hey, let’s not knock small towns,” Moose said. “I have a ballpark named after me in Vulture Gulch.”

“Vulture Gulch? Where the hell is Vulture Gulch?”

“It’s hard by Rooster Creek, down the pike from Bob’s Corner.”

“You Yanks come up with some great names, Moose.”

“Vulture Gulch is funnier than South Porcupine? Well, excuuuse me.”

In the meantime, Mr. Needle’s Eye had singled to left field. Kelsey’s throw held Haskell at third, but with one out, there were a lot of ways he could score. It got very quiet in the stadium.

Bobby Johnson was the designated hitter. He was an arrogant jerk, a high-priced free agent who thought he was worth the money he was paid. Worse, he was a great hitter. I’d seen him win a lot of games.

The fans booed. Johnson dug in and gazed impassively at Thorson. It was a meeting of massive egos. I wasn’t sure which of them I liked less. Under the circumstances, I had to root for Thorson.

“Why are they booing? They’ll just get him mad.”

Thorson’s first pitch brushed Johnson back. He glared at the mound and defiantly dug in again. The second pitch was at his throat. Here was the intimidation implicit in the game, laid out naked and ugly for all the world to see.

When Thorson’s third pitch was in exactly the same place, the fans grew quiet. Johnson stepped back into the box and swung his bat gently, finishing the motion by pointing it at Thorson’s head.

Thorson took the sign from Gardiner impatiently.

“He’s got to walk him,” Glebe muttered. “He can’t pitch to him now.”

“There’s no way he’s going to back down.”

The next pitch was a fastball right down the middle. Johnson swung so hard he fell to one knee, missing the ball entirely, and the bat flew out of his hand, towards the mound. Thorson waited for Johnson to walk to the mound to retrieve it, then picked it up and poked him in the chest with it.

This was getting exciting.

The next pitch was a slider that nicked the outside corner for a called strike. Max Leonard gave the call a little bit extra as Johnson glowered at him in disbelief.

Some fans were on their feet clapping rhythmically as Thorson set again.