by Guy Franks
Right before going out onto the field his players sang “Happy Birthday” to him and then went out and won him a close one 3-2. It was a quick game, only two hours and ten minutes, and Shake was done with his post-game report by 10:00. He didn’t feel like The Mermaid Tavern tonight or a bunch of company on his birthday so he asked Rick if he wanted to go out and get a drink. “Sure thing,” said Burton.
They hit a couple spots before ending up in Sliders where a West Coast game between the Giants and the Dodgers was on the TV. Shake ordered rum and cokes and kept them coming. Rick got the sign early on that Shake was in a serious drinking mood, so he nursed a beer knowing he would have to drive them both home at the end of the night. He’d never seen Shake really drunk, as in falling-down drunk, but he’d seen him well-oiled on occasion—never mean or sloppy but rather loose and talkative. He and Shake were close friends but Shake rarely talked about his personal life. On these occasions, when the rum and cokes began to pile up, Shake opened the vault on his personal life like someone taking out an old classic movie (one they only shared with special guests) and popping it into the VCR. But before that happened—and a sure-fire signal that Shake was headed in that direction—he started quoting the Bard. He always quoted Shakespeare at least once a day, but when he was rum-happy the flood-gates opened.
Fernando Valenzuela was pitching for the Dodgers and had a 4-1 lead going into the bottom of the fifth. “Make you ready your stiff bats,” quoted Shake as they watched the Giants come to bat. Valenzuela got through the inning as the last Giants batter flailed away at a pitch in the dirt. “How poor are they that have no patience,” said Shake and ordered another drink. In the bottom of the seventh, the Giants got a rally going, and when a hit drove in a run Shake yelled, “A hit, a very palpable hit!” There was laughter around the bar. Except for one guy.
“What the hell you sayin’?” he croaked loudly. The guy sat three stools down and looked pretty drunk.
Shake and Rick ignored him and watched as the Giants rally fizzled out at one run. After seven innings it was Dodgers 6, Giants 4.
“Do you wish you could’a played longer in the majors?” asked Shake.
“Sure, don’t you?
‘Yeah, if I could’a had a career like Joe Morgan.”
“What’s Joe doing these days?”
“He’s getting into broadcasting.”
“Really? You know, I think I heard that.”
“He’ll do well. He’s good at anything he puts his mind to.”
They talked about ex-ball-players becoming broadcasters and gave their opinion on who were the best and who were the worst. They agreed that neither one of them would have made a good announcer, though Rick insisted that Shake would have gone over well with all his Shakespeare quotes. Next time they looked up at the TV, Valenzuela was getting the last out of a complete game to win 6-4.
“Roger can’t be too happy with that,” said Rick referring to the Giants manager.
Shake nodded his head thoughtfully and quoted Macbeth:
Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there
Weep our sad bosoms empty.
“Cut it with the faggot talk!” croaked the drunk guy three stools down. “You’re hurtin’ my ears.” Some Kingsmen fans who were standing near shushed him and told him who Shake was. “I don’t care if he’s George Steinbrenner! Shut him up!”
Rick leaned forward and looked down at the drunk. “Hey, friend, we’re not botherin’ you,” he said nicely. “Let us buy you a drink.”
“Buy him a drink and shut him up,” came the belligerent response.
Shake stood up and stared down at the drunk. Rick expected to see fire in his eyes but instead there was a playful glint. Shake raised an eyebrow and quoted Cymbeline:
I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your vexation;
I am senseless of your wrath.
There was laughter and some clapping from the patrons around the bar but the drunk was having none of it. He nearly slipped off his stool but quickly righted himself and walked towards Shake. Rick swiftly got between them.
“I told you to shut that faggot talk up!” yelled the drunk.
Rick noticed the bartender signal to the bouncer standing by the door. Rick held the flat of his hand against the drunk’s chest while Shake stood behind him. Suddenly Shake raised his fist up next to his ear. “By this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth,” he said to the drunk lightheartedly.
That triggered the drunk to push into Rick’s hand, but before he could start anything the bouncer whisked him away. “Get him outta here,” ordered the bartender. The drunk yelled back at Shake as the burly bouncer hustled him towards the door. Shake stepped away from the bar and with a flourish of his hand said, “Begone lout, thou unmannered dog, thou knave and jackanape. Hie thee home to bed, varlet. You’re past saving, you bull’s pizzle, you soused gurnet. Begone!”
The patrons erupted into cheers and applause at this spectacle and Shake doffed his cap and bowed. He came back to his stool and sat down with a chuckle as Rick laughed and slapped him on the back. The bartender handed him a fresh drink. “On the house,” he said.
“Thank you, kind sir,” replied Shake. “You’re a noble tapster.”
Shake took a sip of his drink as he settled back in. Two college-age men came over and asked him to autograph the bill of their Kingsmen caps. Shake asked them their age and whether they played ball and they talked a bit before going back to their table. He was quiet for a spell as he worked his swizzle stick.
“How’s Linda and the kids?” he asked Rick.
“Good,” replied Rick. “I called Linda a bit ago and Ricky threw a one-hitter today and Gordy was four for four.”
“How about my princess?” asked Shake referring to Rick’s daughter.
“She’s got a dance recital May eleventh at 6:00. We got a day game. She said Uncle Shake better be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” The Burtons were like a second family to him and in many ways the bond between Rick and Linda—the closeness, the comfortableness—reminded him of his mom and dad. It was one in a million. He’d known Linda for years, back in Triple-A when she and Rick were first dating, and she was a woman he could imagine himself being married to. His relationship with Linda was an amusing one: she treated him almost like a wayward husband at times—playfully haranguing him, giving him advice and looking out for him—but never left any doubt that Rick and only Rick was the love of her life.
“Know what Rex said to me the other day,” he added after a moment of thoughtful silence. “He said I had a fatal flaw—that I was pushing fifty with no wife and no kids and that was my fatal flaw.”
“He’s a senile old man. What’s he know? His whole family hates him… Anyhow, you’re not the marrying kind. You can be happy and not married, believe me. Just look at Wilt Chamberlain.”
“I wonder how many kids he’s got that he doesn’t know about?” said Shake. “But who says I’m not the marrying kind? I can still get married.”
“To who? Lucy?”
“No… But I could still get married and have kids, I’m only forty-seven. Bing Crosby did it.”
“Bing, huh? I don’t see it. You’re married to baseball. Baseball is the love of your life.” Rick paused for a moment and watched Shake stir his drink. His buddy had the birthday blues, he concluded. “You know,” he added, “I used to think it was women you didn’t trust but that wasn’t it. Then I thought it was marriage—the institution of marriage—but that wasn’t it. Linda says it’s love—you don’t trust love—and I think that’s it.”
“Base hit, up the middle.”
“Okay, that’s it then. So what you got against love?”
And so Shake told him:
There lies within the very flame of love
A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.
Rick thought of a way to respond to that with the only Shakespeare he knew, though he wasn’t sure he could remember it exactly right. “Isn’t that the same guy who said: ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover. O no! it’s an ever-fixed mark that looks on storms and is never broken.’”
Shake did not correct his friend’s mistakes and instead countered with:
The oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings
“Well,” replied Rick, throwing up his hands, “that’s all the Shakespeare I know, so I give up… But if I remember right, didn’t you almost get married in college. Obviously you loved her?”
“I did. Mimi… We almost got married… But I got it in my head she was cheating on me with my best friend so I broke it off.”
“Was she?”
“No. I saw him at my high school reunion. My ten year high school reunion. He said they had nothing going on, that it was all in my head. And he had no reason to lie to me after ten years.”
“Whatever happened to her?”
“I tried to maybe patch things up but she’d taken off. Her roommate told me she moved back East. A few years later I ran into a mutual college friend of ours and she told me Mimi died.”
“Jeez. Sorry to hear that.”
Shake pushed his drink away and sighed deeply. “Maybe cause of me,” he said softly. “I broke her heart… We said we’d be together always… She said she’d love me till the day she died—said that with all her heart and soul, and then she took off… But maybe I…” but Shake broke off, his voice cracking as he fought with his emotions.
Seeing Shake like this bothered Rick. He’d seen Shake cry before, seen him choke up on the last day of the season, seen him get misty-eyed when he accepted “Manager of the Year” award, even seen him downright weep when his father died, but he’d never seen him get like this over a woman. Never. It was unprecedented, like seeing an umpire change his call. It bothered him and he didn’t want to see his good friend go down this road any farther.
“Come on, Shake,” he said cheerfully, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s get outta here, it’s late. You’ll stay at the house. Linda’s expecting you.”
Without a word, Shake got up and they left the bar and Rick drove them home to his house. Linda was waiting up for them. She gave Rick a kiss when he came in and was ready to playfully start in on Shake for keeping her husband out late when she suddenly thought better of it. Something in his eyes told her not to. Instead she kissed him on the cheek and said, “Hey, sweetie. Happy birthday. You’re in the den. The bed’s all made up for you.”
“Okay, thanks you two,” he said with a lopsided smile. As he walked into the den he could hear Linda peppering her husband with vital tidbits: her husband’s stuff was already packed for the road trip, he’d better get his butt out of bed in the morning to say goodbye to his kids, the dog jumped the fence but they found him two blocks over, he had a message from his dad but it was nothing urgent, and she loved him and it was time for bed.
Shake sat down on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes. He unbuttoned his shirt but sat there without taking it off. He saw Linda’s slippered feet coming towards him.
“You okay, big guy,” she asked him tenderly. She lifted up his chin with her finger. “What’s going on in that blotto’ed brain of yours?”
He closed one eye and looking up at her said:
Some unborn sorrow ripe in fortune’s womb
Is coming towards me and my inward soul
With nothing trembles.
“No, it’s not,” she said as she helped him off with his shirt. “You’re drunk and feeling sorry for yourself. Now take off that dirty cap—here, let me have it—and lay down. In the morning you’ll feel better.” She laid him back and deftly unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants off without disrupting his boxers. “You’ve got a big road trip coming up and better things to worry about,” she said as she put the blanket over him and tucked him in. ‘Now get some sleep, sweetie” she added, kissing him on the forehead. He smiled his lopsided smile and watched her slippers leave the room. He turned over and was asleep in less than a minute.
At noon the next day he boarded the bus with the remnants of a hangover and took his seat up front next to Rick. The windows on the bus were tinted, giving the insides a cool, shady feel to it, but Shake kept his sunglasses on and worked to focus his thoughts. His birthday was over and with it doubt; there was work and baseball to think about.
11
CHAPTER
When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Hamlet
On Saturday, April 26, two things of import occurred: the Kingsmen played a day game against the Admirals in New Haven, and in Chernobyl the Soviet’s nuclear reactor exploded releasing radioactive fallout into the atmosphere. In Dane Hamilton’s mind the two were not comparable. One was inconsequential—a baseball game—which in his mind should have been cancelled, and the other was an accident of catastrophic magnitude that threatened the earth with death, decay, and genetic mutations.
The Kingsmen had taken the first two games, and with a win today could take the series, but Dane’s mind was not on any of that. With his transistor radio he tried to keep up-to-date on the reports coming out of Soviet Russia. That was difficult during batting and infield practice where his undivided attention was required. He’d already been warned about listening to his transistor during the game but today, frankly, he didn’t care. The reactor fire was releasing plumes of radioactive isotopes that would cover Western Europe and eventually make its way to the East Coast bringing with it thyroid cancer, leukemia and birth defects. He kept the transistor radio in the inside pocket of his warm-up jacket and ran the earpiece up under his collar. As he waited for his at-bats, he’d throw on his jacket, plug in his ear piece, and keep abreast of the approaching Armageddon.
So far the President had not declared a state of national emergency. No doubt, thought Dane, they were still assessing the scale of the catastrophe and would issue a declaration in a couple days along with evacuation orders. Would it be in time and would people listen? Scenes from the movie The Day After played out in Dane’s head. Burdened with these thoughts, Dane went 0 for 4 and committed two errors at second. The second error cost them the game.
“Shake wants to see you in his office,” said Coach Burton.
Dane sat at his locker slowly dressing and listening to his radio. He looked up distractedly at Coach Burton and nodded.
“And get rid of that goddam radio,” added Burton.
Dane took his earpiece out and nodded again to Coach Burton. Obviously he was in hot water but once he talked to Shake, about what was going on, there would be understanding. He didn’t expect that understanding to come from Burton or any of the other coaches. All they knew was baseball. And he didn’t expect understanding—even comprehension—to come from his fellow players. They were too interested in calculating their stats, playing grab-ass, or figuring out where they were going to go out night-clubbing in New Haven. But Coach Glover—Shake—was different. From what he’d seen so far, Shake was broader-minded. He had an awareness of the precarious absurdity of human existence. Dane was sure of it. He was also sure that Shake not only comprehended the disaster that had just befallen mankind but would certainly understand and probably share Dane’s consuming dread.
Dane quickly finished dressing and walked through the oblivious clubhouse and knocked on Shake’s office door.
“Yeah,” was the answer. Dane pushed the door open and stepped in. “Dane, take a seat,” said his no-nonsense manager. Dane could see that Shake was upset with him but it would only be for a moment. Once this man fully appreciated the irrefutable facts of the matter he would calm down and empathize with him.
“I don’t know where your head
was today,” said Shake, “but it wasn’t in the game. And if I catch you listening to your radio in the dugout again I’ll confiscate it. Just like fourth grade. It’ll go in the drawer at Beehive along with all the other crap I’ve confiscated over the years including knives and dildos. Understood?”
Dane nodded and was about to respond when Shake cut him off.
“Cause if I catch you with that radio again I’m gonna take the cord and strangle you with it until your eyes bug out and you lie dead on the dugout floor. I might go to prison but I’ll happily do my time knowing I did the right thing. Am I clear?”
Dane wasn’t sure how much of this was kidding, but he nodded and was about to respond when Shake cut him off again.
“You’re paid to do a job and that job includes your rapt attention. You don’t get commercial breaks. When you’re in the dugout your rapt attention should be on the game, on the opposing pitcher—on what he’s throwing and in what count—on your last at bat and your next at bat, on what your coaches are talking about and on a hundred other baseball things. Not news-talk radio. If you pulled that crap at NASA you’d be fired. If you pulled it in Beirut you’d be dead… So where was your head today?”
Dane waited a moment until he was sure Shake really wanted him to answer. “My head was where everyone else’s head should be today,” he answered excitedly (now was his chance to get it out). “I’m sure you know what’s going on in the world right now as we speak. A nuclear plant in Russia just exploded and radioactive fallout is poisoning Europe and heading our way. Millions will die. Millions. How does that reality stack up to a game of baseball? What we should be thinking about right now is not game situation or the price of a beer but our lives. Our very lives are at stake. Why aren’t we evacuating or finding shelter? This is where our rapt attention should be. How can we—”