You Can't Go Home Again (9 page)

“Dogged if she didn’t!” Nebraska chuckled. “I got three hits out of four times up that day, an’ two of ‘em was home runs!”

“Yeah,” Myrtle agreed, “an’ that Philadelphia fast-ball thrower was throwin’ ‘em, too.”

“He sure was!” said Nebraska.

“I know,” went on Myrtle, chewing placidly, “because I heard some of the boys say later that it was like he was throwin’ ‘em up there from out of the bleachers, with all them men in shirt-sleeves right behind him, an’ the boys said half the time they couldn’t even see the ball. But Bras must of saw it—or been lucky—because he hit two home runs off of him, an’ that pitcher didn’t like it, either. The second one Bras got, he went stompin’ an’ tearin’ around out there like a wild bull. He sure did look mad,” said Myrtle in her customary placid tone.

“Maddest man I ever seen!” Nebraska cried delightedly. “I thought he was goin’ to dig a hole plumb through to China…But that’s the way it was. She’s right about it. That was the day I got goin’. I know one of the boys said to me later, ‘Bras,’ he says, ‘we all thought you was goin’ to take a ride, but you sure dug in, didn’t you?’ That’s the way it is in this game. I seen Babe Ruth go fer weeks when he couldn’t hit a balloon, an’ all of a sudden he lams into it. Seems like he just cain’t miss from then on.”

All this had happened four years ago. Now the two friends had met again, and were seated side by side in the speeding train, talking and catching up on one another. When George explained the reason for his going home, Nebraska turned to him with open-mouthed astonishment, genuine concern written in the frown upon his brown and homely face.

“Well, what d’you know about that!” he said. “I sure am sorry, Monk.” He was silent while he thought about it, and embarrassed, not knowing what to say. Then, after a moment: “Gee!”—he shook his head—“your aunt was one swell cook! I never will fergit it! Remember how she used to feed us kids—every danged one of us in the whole neighbourhood?” He paused, then grinned up shyly at his friend: “I sure wish I had a fistful of them good ole cookies of hers right this minute!”

Nebraska’s right ankle was taped and bandaged; a heavy cane rested between his knees. George asked him what had happened.

“I pulled a tendon,” Nebraska said, “an’ got laid off. So I thought I might as well run down an’ see the folks. Myrtle, she couldn’t come—the kid’s got to git ready fer school.”

“How are they?” George asked.

“Oh, fine, fine. All wool an’ a yard wide, both of ‘em!” He was silent for a moment, then he looked at his friend with a tolerant Cherokee grin and said: “But I’m crackin’ up, Monkus. Guess I cain’t stan’ the gaff much more.”

Nebraska was only thirty-one now, and George was incredulous. Nebraska smiled good-naturedly again:

“That’s an ole man in baseball, Monk. I went up when I was twenty-one. I been aroun’ a long time.”

The quiet resignation of the player touched his friend with sadness. It was hard and painful for him to face the fact that this strong and fearless creature, who had stood in his life always for courage and for victory, should now be speaking with such ready acceptance of defeat.

“But, Bras,” he protested, “you’ve been hitting just as well this season as you ever did! I’ve read about you in the papers, and the reporters have all said the same thing.”

“Oh, I can still hit ‘em,” Nebraska quietly agreed. “It ain’t the hittin’ that bothers me. That’s the last thing you lose, anyway. Leastways, it’s goin’ to be that way with me, an’ I talked to other fellahs who said it was that way with them.” After a pause he went on in a low tone: “If this ole leg heals up in time, I’ll go on back an’ git in the game again an’ finish out the season. An’ if I’m lucky, maybe they’ll keep me on a couple more years, because they know I can still hit. But, hell,” he added quietly, “they know I’m through. They already got me all tied up with string.”

As Nebraska talked, George saw that the Cherokee in him was the same now as it had been when he was a boy. His cheerful fatalism had always been the source of his great strength and courage. That was why he had never been afraid of anything, not even death. But, seeing the look of regret on George’s face, Nebraska smiled again and went on lightly:

“That’s the way it is, Monk. You’re good up there as long as you’re good. After that they sell you down the river. Hell, I ain’t kickin’. I been lucky. I had ten years of it already, an’ that’s more than most. An’ I been in three World’s Serious. If I can hold on fer another year or two—if they don’t let me go or trade me—I think maybe we’ll be in again. Me an’ Myrtle has figgered it all out. I had to help her people some, an’ I bought a farm fer Mama an’ the Ole Man—that’s where they always wanted to be. An’ I got three hundred acres of my own in Zebulon—all paid fer, too!—an’ if I git a good price this year fer my tobacco, I Stan’ to clear two thousand dollars. So if I can git two years more in the League an’ one more good World’s Serious, why”—he turned his square face towards his friend and grinned his brown and freckled grin, just as he used to as a boy—“we’ll be all set.”

“And—you mean you’ll be satisfied?”

“Huh? Satisfied?” Nebraska turned to him with a puzzled look. “How do you mean?”

“I mean after all you’ve seen and done, Bras—the big cities and the crowds, and all the people shouting—and the newspapers, and the headlines, and the World’s Series—and—and—the first of March, and St. Petersburg, and meeting all the fellows again, and spring training----”

Nebraska groaned.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Spring trainin’.”

“You mean you don’t like it?”

“Like it! Them first three weeks is just plain hell. It ain’t bad when you’re a kid. You don’t put on much weight durin’ the winter, an’ when you come down in the spring it only takes a few days to loosen up an’ git the kinks out. In two weeks’ time you’re loose as ashes. But wait till you been aroun’ as long as I have!” He laughed loudly and shook his head. “Boy! The first time you go after a grounder you can hear your joints creak. After a while you begin to limber up—you work into it an’ git the soreness out of your muscles. By the time the season starts, along in April, you feel pretty good. By May you’re goin’ like a house a-fire, an’ you tell yourself you’re good as you ever was. You’re still goin’ strong along in June. An’ then you hit July, an’ you git them double-headers in St. Looie! Boy, oh boy!” Again he shook his head and laughed, baring big square teeth. “Monkus,” he said quietly, turning to his companion, and now his face was serious and he had his black Indian look—“you ever been in St. Looie in July?”

“No.”

“All right, then,” he said very softly and scornfully. “An’ you ain’t played
ball
there in July. You come up to bat with sweat bustin’ from your ears. You step up an’ look out there to where the pitcher ought to be, an’ you see four of him. The crowd in the bleachers is out there roastin’ in their shirt-sleeves, an’ when the pitcher throws the ball it just comes from nowheres—it comes right out of all them shirt-sleeves in the bleachers. It’s on top of you before you know it. Well, anyway, you dig in an’ git a toe-hold, take your cut, an’ maybe you connect. You straighten out a fast one. It’s good fer two bases if you hustle. In the old days you could’ve made it standin’ up. But now—boy!” He shook his head slowly. “You cain’t tell me nothin’ about that ball park in St. Looie in July! They got it all growed out in grass in April, but after July first”—he gave a short laugh—“hell!—it’s paved with concrete! An’ when you git to first, them dogs is sayin’, ‘Boy, let’s stay here!’ But you gotta keep on goin’—you know the manager is watchin’ you—you’re gonna ketch hell if you don’t take that extra base, it may mean the game. An’ the boys up in the press-box, they got their eyes glued on you, too—they’ve begun to say old Crane is playin’ on a dime—an’ you’re thinkin’ about next year an’ maybe gittin’ in another Serious—an’ you hope to God you don’t git traded to St. Looie. So you take it on the lam, you slide into second like the Twentieth Century comin’ into the Chicago yards—an’ when you git up an’ feel yourself all over to see if any of your parts is missin’, you gotta listen to one of that second baseman’s wisecracks: ‘What’s the hurry, Bras? Afraid you’ll be late fer the Veterans’ Reunion?’”

“I begin to see what you mean, all right,” said George.

“See what I mean? Why, say! One day this season I ast one of the boys what month it was, an’ when he told me it was just the middle of July, I says to him: ‘July, hell! If it ain’t September I’ll eat your hat!’ ‘Go ahead, then,’ he says, ‘an’ eat it, because it ain’t September, Bras—it’s July.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘they must be havin’ sixty days a month this year—it’s the longest damn July I ever felt!’ An’ lemme tell you, I didn’t miss it fer, either—I’ll be dogged if I did! When you git old in this business, it may be only July, but you think it’s September.” He was silent for a moment. “But they’ll keep you in there, gener’ly, as long as you can hit. If you can smack that ole apple, they’ll send you out there if they’ve got to use glue to keep you from fallin’ apart. So maybe I’ll git in another year or two if I’m lucky. So long’s I can hit ‘em, maybe they’ll keep sendin’ me out there till all the other players has to grunt every time ole Bras goes after a ground ball!” He laughed. “I ain’t that bad yet, but soon’s I am, I’m through.”

“You won’t mind it, then, when you have to quit?”

He didn’t answer at once. He sat there looking out the window at the factory-blighted landscape of New Jersey. Then he laughed a little wearily:

“Boy, this may be a ride on the train to you, but to me—say!—I covered this stretch so often that I can tell you what telephone post we’re passin’ without even lookin’ out the window. Why, hell yes!”—he laughed loudly now, in the old infectious way—“I used to have ‘em numbered—now I got ‘em
named!
”

“And you think you can get used to spending all your time out on the farm in Zebulon?”

“Git used to it?” In Nebraska’s voice there was now the same note of scornful protest that it had when he was a boy, and for a moment he turned and looked at his friend with an expression of astonished disgust. “Why, what are you talkin’ about? That’s the greatest life in the world!”

“And your father? How is he, Bras?”

The player grinned and shook his head: “Oh, the Ole Man’s happy as a possum. He’s doin’ what he wanted to do all his life.”

“And is he well?”

“If he felt any better he’d have to go to bed. Strong as a bull,” said Nebraska proudly. “He could wrastle a bear right now an’ bite his nose off! Why, hell yes!” the player went on with an air of conviction—“he could take any two men I know to-day an’ throw ‘em over his shoulder!”

“Bras, do you remember when you and I were kids and your father was on the police force, how he used to wrestle all those professionals that came to town? There were some good ones, too!”

“You’re damn right there was!” said the player, nodding his head. “Tom Anderson, who used to be South Atlantic champion, an’ that fellah Petersen—do you remember him?”

“Sure. They called him the Bone-Crushing Swede—he used to come there all the time.”

“Yeah, that’s him. He used to wrastle all over the country—he was way up there, one of the best in the business. The Ole Man wrastled him three times, an’ throwed him once, too!”

“And that big fellow they called the Strangler Turk----”

“Yeah, an’ he was good, too! Only he wasn’t no Turk—he only called hisself one. The Ole Man told me he was some kind of Polack or Bohunk from the steel mills out in Pennsylvania, an’ that’s how he got so strong.”

“And the Jersey Giant----”

“Yeah----”

“And Cyclone Finnegan----”

“Yeah----”

“And Bull Dakota—and Texas Jim Ryan—and the Masked Marvel? Do you remember the Masked Marvel?”

“Yeah—only there was a whole lot of them—guys cruisin’ all over the country callin’ theirselves the Masked Marvel. The Ole Man wrastled two of ‘em. Only the real Masked Marvel never came to town. The Ole Man told me there was a real Masked Marvel, but he-was too damn good, I guess, to come to Libya Hill.”

“Do you remember the night, Bras, up at the old City Auditorium, when your father was wrestling one of these Masked Marvels, and we were there in the front row rooting for him, and he got a strangle hold on this fellow with the mask, and the mask came off—and the fellow wasn’t the Masked Marvel at all, but only that Greek who used to work all night at the Bijou Café for Ladies and Gents down by the depot?”

“Yeah—haw-haw!” Nebraska threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I’d clean fergot that damn Greek, but that’s who it was! The whole crowd hollered frame-up an’ tried to git their money back—I’ll swear, Monk! I’m glad to see you!” He put his big brown hand on his companion’s knee. “It don’t seem no time, does it? It all comes back!”

“Yes, Bras”—for a moment George looked out at the flashing landscape with a feeling of sadness and wonder in his heart—“it all comes back.”

George sat by the window and watched the stifled land stroke past him. It was unseasonably hot for September, there had been no rain for weeks, and all afternoon the contours of the eastern seaboard faded away into the weary hazes of the heat. The soil was parched and dusty, and under a glazed and burning sky coarse yellow grasses and the withered stalks of weeds simmered and flashed beside the tracks. The whole continent seemed to be gasping for its breath. In the hot green depths of the train a powder of fine cinders beat in through the meshes of the screens, and during the pauses at stations the little fans at both ends of the car hummed monotonously, with a sound that seemed to be the voice of the heat itself. During these intervals when the train stood still, enormous engines steamed slowly by on adjacent tracks, or stood panting, passive as great cats, and their engineers wiped wads of blackened waste across their grimy faces, while the passengers fanned feebly with sheaves of languid paper or sat in soaked and sweltering dejection.

For a long time George sat alone beside his window. His eyes took in every detail of the changing scene, but his thoughts were turned inward, absorbed in recollections which his meeting with Nebraska Crane had brought alive again. The great train pounded down across New Jersey, across Pennsylvania, across the tip of Delaware, and into Maryland. The unfolding panorama of the land was itself like a sequence on the scroll of time. George felt lost and a little sick. His talk with his boyhood friend had driven him back across the years. The changes in Nebraska and his quiet acceptance of defeat had added an undertone of sadness to the vague, uneasy sense of foreboding which he had got from his conversation with the banker, the politician, and the Mayor.