The Palace Thief (6 page)

Apparently our own batting order had been chosen randomly, and therefore I did not come to the plate until the third inning. By this time we already had the bearing of a losing team. Mr. Peters had struck out in the number-four position, as had three others of the six men preceding me, and none of our players had reached base. Therefore it was with some trepidation that I entered the batter’s box and faced Mr. Corsetti to lead off the third inning. As I said, however, I had slept well, and as I dug in my spikes and loosened the bat on my shoulder I felt a limberness in my arms and an acuity in my eyes that I had not felt for years. Briefly, I hit the first pitch into left-center field for a double.

Although I was not brought around to score, that inning in the field I made a rather nice play at third base on a ball that had apparently been hit into the hole. Mr. Peters slapped me on the back, and Kent Powell paid me a compliment from his position behind me. Furthermore, I noticed afterward that Willie Mays now sat in our dugout and that he had seen the play. Needless to say, I was pleased. Two innings later I hit a nice ball into right field, and amid the general hubbub from the dugout as I made the turn at first base I believe I heard the
specific praise of Mr. Mays. Although between innings he chatted only with Mr. Peters on our bench, I felt loose of limb and elevated of spirit and did not take notice, although it occurred to me briefly that Willie Mays and Eugene Peters had hobnobbed before.

It would not be inaccurate to say that my play had inspired the Sluggers. Our next turn at the plate produced a run and the following inning two more, so that late in the game we trailed by only one run and were in every way a rejuvenated club. In the meantime, Dr. Argusian had matched my feats. In the fourth inning he had made a fine catch of a sinking line drive that ended a brief rally for us, and in the sixth he had hit a ball to the wall in left-center field. It is to new heights that competition naturally lifts us, and in the seventh I myself hit a ball to the same spot. I can only say that some small change seemed to have occurred inside me, some quickening of reflex and sharpening of vision that allowed me to see the pitch as though against a background of black and to hit it as though murderous. The ball caromed from my bat and did not dip until it hit the warning track in left field, and by this time I was standing on second base breathing the bracing aroma of infield clay. The game proceeded neck and neck. Our opponents scored a run in the top of the eighth, and we answered with two in the bottom. Willie Mays seemed to be rooting for our side, and as we left the bench that inning tied with the Bashers, he slapped hands with Mr. Peters and spoke general encouragement to us all.

Although Willie Mays said nothing more to me specifically, I believe it is accurate and therefore not immodest to say that by the final inning the game had turned into a contest between Dr. Argusian and me. He had reached base safely four times in four appearances at the plate, and I had made the same percentage
in three; he had produced a defensive gem and so had I. I had noticed that in their dugout the men seemed to gather about Dr. Argusian, and although the corollary did not occur in our own, it was easy enough to see why. Willie Mays sat with us through the entire last half of the game, and for all of us, I believe, this was like finding ourselves in a taxicab with the king of England.

Although it strains the credibility to recall what happened at the end of that first contest, indeed the final inning unfolded like the glorious dream of a child. We came to the plate in the bottom of the ninth tied with the Bashers, and Eugene Peters led off. Briefly, he reached base on a walk—the first given up by Mr. Corsetti; he was promptly sacrificed to second base, where he remained while the number-six batter struck out swinging and I came to the plate, as luck would have it, with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning and the winning run in scoring position.

I would like to report that I strode confidently to the batter’s box, but what happened in fact was that I suddenly lost my nerve. I tapped my cleats with the bat and noticed with dismay that all the men in our dugout, including Willie Mays, were on their feet. Instead of giving me strength, this sapped it. My stomach felt light and Mr. Corsetti’s first pitch broke devilishly so that I could not even bring the bat to stir from my shoulder. A strike was called. It was immediately followed by another, and on the mound I could see a small smile on Mr. Corsetti’s face. Behind me the men began to stir. I commenced inexplicably to think of the failures in my life, which seemed to rise before my eyes in a tide of regret and misdecision, so that even as Mr. Corsetti brought his hands together in the glove, I had to step from the batter’s box and catch my breath. Mr. Peters retreated in his lead at second, and I immediately thought of the differences
between him and me—that he owned a large and growing business concern, that he had enjoyed his life both then and now, that he moved easily among men, et cetera. Yet I have always been a man of will. I took a breath, and even in my weakened state I was able to summon a modicum of courage and take my place again in the box. Across the diamond Mr. Peters resumed his lead. I have been honest in this portrayal and I will be honest again: Before the last pitch of that game was even thrown, I had decided that I would swing at it, and therefore I cannot say it was anything more than luck that it sprang sharply off my bat up the middle into center field for a single. Mr. Peters crossed the plate and we had won.

The revelry was instant and boisterous, with several of the players slapping me on the back, Eugene Peters hugging me across the shoulders, and Willie Mays briefly tousling my hair. Afterward we broke for the showers. Standing among the jets of water, soaping ourselves with the lime-scented lotion provided in large dispensers by the management, the talk was in large measure of my feats. Of course I enjoyed this but was not altogether comfortable, as I knew my last base hit had been a fluke. When one of the men shook up a soap dispenser as though it were a champagne bottle and said boisterously to me, “To the Most Valuable Player,” I nodded gamely but took it upon myself to leave the showers as soon as possible and dress again at my locker.

It was then that Willie Mays entered the room. He passed by Mr. Peters, who had just emerged from the tiled stalls, doffed his cap, and sat down facing me. I greeted him and went about what I was doing, which was folding my uniform and placing it into the team bag with which we had been provided at registration. Several men immediately gathered around us on the benches, and although they appeared to be occupied with
combing their hair, restretching their leggings, and fastening their shoes, I knew that they were in fact listening to our conversation.

Willie Mays said, “You had the eye, my friend.”

I thanked him.

He said, “You were in the zone.”

I thanked him again.

Willie Mays said, “Shoot, you were.”

Not certain how to respond to this kind of exchange and believing that he knew what had actually occurred at my last trip to the plate, I was eager to steer the discussion in a slightly different direction. I said, “What do you make of this man’s pitching?”

Willie Mays said, “Watch his wrist before he throws, he gives away the curveball.”

I said, “I will.”

Willie Mays said, “Shoot, you hit the ball, brother.”

I ventured, “Shoot, yes.”

Willie Mays said, “You creamed that sucker.”

I said, “Say, I bet they sock you at tax time.”

I do not know why I said this. The smile did not vanish from Willie Mays’s face, but it did appear to freeze. At that moment, another man passed us on the way from the showers, and Willie Mays held out his open palm for him to slap. In doing so he had turned away from me, and I found myself in the corner of the locker room gathering my belongings, facing Willie Mays’s back yet unable to pass around him through the door. I sat down again on the bench and, conscious of the eyes of the other men upon me, unpacked my cleats and tapped out the dirt from them onto the concrete floor. For several moments I worked between the cleats with my fingernails, pretending to clean them, and when Willie Mays still had not moved nor
acknowledged me sitting behind him on the bench, I pretended to be occupied with straightening up the small mess I had created on the floor. I leaned down and gathered up the dirt I had knocked about.

It was Mr. Peters who finally broke the silence. “Jeez,” he said in the easy way that made the other men turn to him, “they may sock you, Willie, but I’d give anything to be in your shoes, my friend.”

Willie Mays laughed, and in the general agreement that followed I was able to extricate myself from the corner, finish my dressing, and go back to the rooms, where I attempted to take my bearings. I still felt a residue of embarrassment from what had happened, and sitting down at the window I noticed that my hands shook slightly. I looked over the vista and attempted to calm myself. I allowed my mind to wander over the day and my eyes to rest here and there across the fields—on the left-field alley where my drive had landed in the seventh inning, and on the newly limed foul line where I had backhanded a sharp ground ball in the fifth. The diamonds had been watered again, and in the setting sun the raked clay base paths glistened like rivers. Needless to say, I was grateful to Mr. Peters for interceding after what I could now only think of as my “gaffe,” yet I was uneasy as to what effect the incident would have on our business dealings, which were yet to take place. That evening I ate alone at a steak restaurant in town.

The next day we played the Bashers again, and although I will not go into great detail, I will indeed say that whatever preternatural strength had been visited upon me the day before returned as miraculously the following morning. Briefly, at the plate I went three for five and in the field held my ground without error. To be fair, Eugene Peters also gathered three base hits, although he made a throwing error in the second
inning and a fielding in the third. As for Dr. Argusian, he seemed to have lost whatever grace had blessed him earlier and contributed almost nothing to the Bashers’ efforts. Again we came from behind to defeat our opponents, and in the clubhouse afterward general hilarity was the order.

This was the end of the weekend, and that evening we ate dinner together with the comradeliness of soldiers and afterward rose at the table to make toasts. As can no doubt be imagined, I myself did not like to speak in such situations, and as one after another of the men stood to deliver good-natured barbs and heartfelt thanks, I grew increasingly uncomfortable in my seat. Finally, to my great relief, Mr. Corsetti rose, went to the podium at the head of the hall, and announced that it was time for the presentation of awards. Now, I should add that it was not until this moment that I considered the possibility I would be named Most Valuable Player for the weekend.

The awards were given in a lighthearted tone. First, Alan Gallagher rose to present the Rookie of the Year award, which went to the oldest player in the group, a former state senator in his seventies who had merely watched the two games while sitting in the dugout in his uniform. This award consisted of Alan Gallagher’s own Giants hat, which he proceeded to autograph and present to the venerable old man, who had walked to the podium with a cane. Kent Powell then gave out an autographed Giants shirt for Most Improved Player, which went to one of the radiologists who had been coming to the camp, apparently, for over a decade.

Then Willie Mays rose. Although he carried with him a pair of black Giants leggings, his bearing was not and could not ever be comedic. He was too great a man. “Say-hey,” he said at the microphone as the applause subsided, “These socks are for the Most Valuable Player of the week. They were the ones I wore
my last season in the majors.” He looked around at us, suddenly at a loss, then glanced down at his hands as the room fell silent. I believe he was near tears.

I did not necessarily expect to win the leggings, as several other players had done well also, and I certainly do not believe in premonitions, yet as Willie Mays stood before us with his head bowed slightly and his hands fidgeting over the leggings, I suddenly understood with utter certainty that he was in the employ of Mr. Peters. How my heart sank for a moment. Willie Mays was the greatest player of his era. However, he was of the generation of players who had made their mark before the astronomical salaries of our current stars, and thus I suppose I should not have been surprised that he had to make his own living even in professional retirement. No doubt I would soon be seeing him in a television commercial for automobile parts. “Seeing as he wants to be in my shoes so much,” he said softly, “these leggings are for him—Mr. Eugene Peters.”

Several of the men looked at me, and although I was grateful for their gesture I nonetheless raised my glass and pantomimed a drink from it as Mr. Peters blushed and rose from the table. At the podium he shook hands with Willie Mays, turned to the crowd, and held up the leggings one in each hand like trophies. Here was a man with capital in four western states, a villa at Lake Tahoe, and an enviable position in a shrinking economy, yet he was beaming a sultan’s smile because in his hands hung two tubes of limp black cloth that were grayed with age and worn thin at the stirrups. The men applauded and so did I.

After the ceremony a group of us repaired to the lounge, where the talk turned first to major league baseball, then to politics, and finally to the economy, which I am not surprised to report was of concern to many present. A consensus was reached concerning downsizing and cost-trimming to weather
the current crisis, and another round of drinks was ordered by Mr. Peters. At this point Mr. Forbes left for a few minutes, and I could see him down the hall talking to the concierge and then speaking on the desk telephone. He returned, joined the conversation, and a few minutes later the door to the lounge opened and three young women entered.

Mr. Forbes greeted them and waved them to our table, where he provided them with chairs and signaled to the bartender to take an order. I rose to be introduced. I am a man with children and it was not until I was standing that I understood what was taking place. From my position above the table I saw that one of them was sitting quite close to Mr. Peters on the red leather bench and was in fact touching him. I wondered briefly whether this kind of behavior was the quid pro quo for the untrammeled success that Eugene Peters had enjoyed, and though I admit that at that moment I felt a bolt of envy, I also understood that without children Eugene Peters would vanish completely from this earth. I excused myself and went outside to the telephone, where I called Scheherazade.