The Great American Novel (33 page)

“Cut it
out,”
snapped Doubloon.

“Reputed to be the fastest base runner in the game today—by those, that is, who've had the rare opportunity of
seeing
him on base—only kidding, Nickname!” quipped Mazuma, clapping the boy on the back, while the mob howled—“Nickname Damur is today going to match his speed around the bases with none other than the second cousin by marriage to the great Seabiscuit, my own Doubloon's polo pony—Graham Cracker!”

Here a snorting little chestnut filly danced up out of the Reaper dugout. “Grahams!” called Doubloon, and she ran to where the batboy, who had led the horse up past the water cooler and on to the playing field, was holding the pony by the reins. “Oh Grammies!” cried Doubloon and buried her lips in the pony's mane. Then, in high-heeled shoes, shorts, and blouse, she was hoisted up onto her mount by the batboy; her riding crop was tossed up to her and she was off—galloping all the way to the center-field wall and back.

“Graham Cracker will be carrying one hundred and seven pounds. Or,” said Mazuma, “to put it so that you folks who don't follow the ponies understand, 38–22–36.”

Now Nickname and Graham Cracker lined up with their noses even at home plate and pointed in the direction of first base. “As you fans know,” said Mazuma, “thanks to General Douglas D. Oakhart there are still no pari-mutuel windows allowed in Patriot League parks. But speaking for myself and fun-loving men everywhere, I don't see what's to stop you from placing a friendly little wager with your neighbor…”

While the hubbub of betting excitement swept through the stadium, Doubloon took the opportunity to lean down across Graham Cracker's neck, and as though talking into the horse's ear, whispered to the Mundy second-baseman, “Wouldn't crowd us on the turn, Nickname—not if you want to come out of this thing in one piece.”

And they were off!

“It's Graham Cracker in the lead as they break from the plate,” announced Mazuma, dropping into a deep gravelly voice and firing his words like bullets—“It's Graham by half a length down the first-base line! At the bag, Graham turns wide—and it's Nickname making his dash on the inside as they head for second! And now they're neck and neck, Nickname's right there! So is Graham! They're around second heading for third, and it's Nickname now by a length, a length and a half with a third of the way to come—and now Graham Cracker is making her move as they pass the shortstop position! Graham Cracker is not beaten yet! She's coming with a rush! If she don't get blocked, she'll give that Mundy an awful drive! Now they're around third, they're heading for home,
and here comes Graham Cracker
—” and now forty thousand screaming, hollering fans were on their feet, and even as Doubloon's whip curled across his mouth, even as the blood sprang from his nose, Nickname could imagine victory—himself a Kakoola Reaper, second-baseman for an authentic big league team, a club with a park of its own, fans of its own, and an owner of whose presence you could never for a moment be in doubt—ah, but there was the blur of Graham Cracker pulling past him, and once again that whip as it flailed backwards to crack open the skin of his brow, and no, he would
not
be defeated, no, he would
not
be a Mundy for the rest of his born days—“Don't!” hollered Jolly Cholly, as Nickname began to go into his slide—but he did, he did: at the risk of being crushed to powder beneath Graham Cracker's four plunging legs, the ambitious fourteen-year-old, who wanted only to improve his lot in life (as who doesn't?), who wanted only to better himself (as who wouldn't?), went in under the horse's hoofs.

“Crazy little prick!” cried Doubloon, and swerving to avoid a collision at the plate, allowed Nickname to spore. She herself went hurtling headlong out of the saddle and flew some thirty feet through the air, then bounced into the Mundy dugout, where Big John, taking her on the short hop, was able to squeeze just about whatever he wanted before the stretcher arrived to hurry the broken body of the unconscious young woman to the emergency operating room of Kakoola Memorial. Then, with forty thousand flabbergasted fans looking on—yes, even the Kakoola fans were staggered, even their expectations of a lively afternoon of thrills were exceeded by this calamitous turn of events—Mazuma borrowed a pistol from a stadium guard and put a bullet through Graham Cracker's skull.

“Gee,” gulped Nickname, as the pony, who had lain twitching in agony only inches from home plate, died with a whish of fumes from her exhaust, “I was
only
tryin' to win.”

In his grief, Mazuma had to smile. “Well, if Doubloon kicks the bucket, Damur, you'll see what you won. When the fans get through with you, Nickname, you'll envy the unenviable Gamesh. My educated guess, kid, is that even if Doubloon survives, you yourself are washed up. To coin an appropriately paradoxical phrase, ‘You're out of the running, flash-in-the-pan.'”

“At fourteen?” cried the bloodied Mundy.

“Kee-rect,” said Mazuma. “I believe you have just Mundied yourself for life.”

“But how
could
I? I
won!
”

“Tell it to them, Nickname,” said Mazuma, lifting his gaze to the mob howling now for Nickname's unsportsmanlike hide. “Like the feller says,” quipped Mazuma, covering his ears, “where you're concerned, it's all over but the shouting.”

Minutes passed before Mazuma could even hope to make himself heard; then he stepped to the microphone, raised one hand, and into the red roaring mouth of the crowd, tossed this tender filet: “Official time, fourteen and four-fifths seconds. The winner—Damur!”

“Murderer! Killer! Monster! Fiend!”—yes, those were the nicknames they were now suggesting for the youth perennially in search of the right monicker for himself.

After the groundskeepers had dragged Graham Cracker's carcass across the field and out through the Mundy bullpen, and had raked away the last of her poignant hoof prints, Mazuma announced to the crowd that he intended to continue with “Welcome Bud Parusha Day” ceremonies as planned. And when, in a breaking voice, he said, “I can't help but think that Doubloon would want it that way,” the fans once again came to their feet to deliver a standing ovation.

To the surprise and delight of everyone, the next person to be introduced was a stout, gray-haired woman in a longish print dress and sturdy shoes who was helped up out of the Reaper dugout and escorted to the microphone by a small army of Boy Scouts. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mazuma, pecking her once on the cheek, “this little lady happens to be—my mom! And with her, Troop 40 of Mazuma Avenue School!”

The Boy Scouts came instantly to attention and saluted—some saluted Mother Mazuma, others Frank Mazuma, still others the American flag in center field, and a few simply saluted each other. Mrs. Mazuma waved shyly at the crowd with her handbag. “Today,” she said into the mike, but so softly the fans had to lean forward in their seats to hear …
Today,
came the even gentler echo … “I consider myself—”
I consider myself
 … “the happiest mother—”
the happiest mother
 … “on the face of the earth—”
of the earth
 …

Yet another standing ovation.

“Now, fans,” said Mazuma, “as you all know, there is a custom in baseball, old as the great game itself, for the team at bat to attempt to rile up the team on the field by that benign form of badinage known as bench-jockeying. And as you also know if you've been out to the park this year to see our erstwhile visitors at play, there is probably no player in the entire league who the bench-jockeys can rile up quicker and easier than the man I am about to introduce. All you have to shout from the bench is ‘Hothead, bet you a bottle of suds you couldn't throw out my own mother!' and then watch that Mundy fume. Folks, let's give a big welcome to Bud Parusha's former teammate and fellow defective, Ruppert Mundy catcher, Hothead Ptah!”

Wearing but one shin guard—“Only got but one shin!” Hot would snarl at the wiseguys—and his chest protector, and carrying his mask and his glove, Hot came racing out of the Mundy dugout at what for him was top speed. Oh, was he eager!

“Well,” said Mazuma when the laughter died down, “here she is, Hot—my mom!”

“Howdy!”

“Good day, Mr. Ptah.”

“Well, Hot,” said Mazuma, “think you can throw her out at second, two out of three? Personally, I have to say I got my doubts, knowin' Mom here and her speed.”

The crowd went wild as Hothead proceeded instantly to lose his temper. “You'll eat those words, Mazuma!”

“And—and,” said Mazuma, having to wait now for his own laughter to subside (“His daughter's in the hospital, surgery is being performed on her spinal column at this very moment, and he can still laugh! What a guy!” said the Reaper sportscaster to the hundreds of thousands tuned to KALE), “to assist Hothead in his attempt to cut down my mother stealing two times out of three, here is the proud owner of the sorest arm in baseball, Mundy relief ace—”

Yes, to the delight of the multitude, Chico Mecoatl began the long sad walk in from the Mundy bullpen. “Eeeep!” they cried, “eeeep!” imitating that little yelp he made when he pitched. Oh, how the crowd loved it—while the Mundys themselves were dumbstruck. Chico, even
Chico,
with an E.R.A. of 14.06, could no longer bear the indignity of wearing the Ruppert R!

“And,” continued Mazuma, “covering second, to take the throw from Hothead—” “No!” the fans roared. “—Mundy second-sacker—” “No! No!” “—Nickname—”

“MURDERER! KILLER! THUG!” they shrieked, as Nickname, tipping his cap, ran gamely out to his position.

When Big John rose from the Mundy bench to go out to cover first, he quickly assured his startled teammates that
he
was only doing it for the kicks involved. “Don't worry, boys. I ain't no turncoat. Only trade I'd consider is to the Gypsys—wouldn't mind dancin' with a bear before I die! Haw! Haw!”

Mrs. Mazuma, meanwhile, had retired to the Reaper dugout, to leave her purse for safekeeping with the Boy Scouts of Troop 40, and to change into her spikes.

To spare himself some suffering, Chico rolled his warm-up pitch on the ground to Hot, who then pegged the ball down to Nickname at second. Ducky Rig, the Reaper catcher, came out to pretend to be the batter, and to yet another standing ovation—seven in all during the pregame ceremony, “let me check—yes sir, that's it all right, a major league record,” said the sportscaster, “for standing ovations in a pregame ceremony in regular season competition”—Mazuma's mom walked to first in her baseball shoes, being careful to avoid stepping down on the freshly laid foul line.

“How do you do, Mr. Baal,” she said, and Big John gave the fans their money's worth by sweeping off his cap and bowing in the manner of Sir Walter Raleigh.

Then the Mexican right-hander went into his stretch; he looked cursorily back over his left shoulder to first—and sure enough, the old lady in the print dress came climbing down off the bag, and taking one inch, and then another, and then another, wound up taking herself a very healthy lead indeed. Engaging Chico's eyes, she began to move her arms in a slow swinging motion, looking for all the world as though she would be breaking for second as soon as he went into his delivery.

Well, let her. Chico hadn't thrown to first to hold a
regular
base runner to the bag so far this year, and he wasn't starting up at this late date with an old lady. Not with
his
arm, he wasn't. So, into his snake-like wind-up he went, and with that yelp of his—“Eeeeep!”—looped the ball into the dirt. Hot blocked it neatly with his wooden leg, and Mrs. Mazuma held at first.

On the second pitch she went! The pitch, when it finally arrived, was high, but Hot, playing inspired ball, leaped to grab it and still in the air, fired down to Nickname.

Dress and all, Mrs. Mazuma slid, and her son, who was serving now as umpire at second, called, “Y'r out!”

The look she gave him when she rose to brush the dirt off herself could hardly be described as maternal. “He missed the tag, Frank.”

“I call 'em the way I see 'em, Mom,” said Mazuma into the hand mike he was carrying.

“He never touched me, Frank,” said Mrs. Mazuma, kicking angrily at the bag.

“Look, no favors around here just because you happened once upon a time to have nursed the umpire! If I said ‘Y'r out!', y'r out!”

Shaking her head in dismay, she trotted back to first, but not before turning to toss a few words Nickname's way.

Nickname now walked the ball to the mound, waving for Hot and Big John to join him and Chico for a conference. “Look,” he said, “you ain't gonna believe this—but know what Mrs. Mazuma just told me? She flashes me this look, see, and she says, ‘Don't block that bag, sonny, or next time I'll cut your ears off!'”

“Well, whattayaknow! Just as I suspicioned! That card Mazuma done it to us again—the she is really a he! Haw!”

“Look,” snarled Hot, “I don't care if it's a
it!
You block that bag good, Nickname! And Chico, don't you give her no jump like that, you heart Fire to first when she takes that lead!”

“Oh, Caldo, no, please Caldo, I don't be happy fire to first—too much hurt, Caldo—”

“And what about bein' a friggin' Mundy, don't that hurt? Hold that slit to first, you yelpin' little spic, or the whole lot of us is doomed to Rupe-it forever!”

“Haw! Doomded we is anywhichway,” said Big John, and strode back to first base as though doom was so much lemonade to him. “How they hangin', honey?” he asked Mrs. Mazuma, placing a wad of tobacco juice between her spikes.