Painting the Corners Again

by Weintraub, Bob;

  Praise for Painting the Corners Again

  “With these stories, Bob Weintraub has executed a triple play: savvy baseball writing, unforgettable characters, and a home run ending for each tale. By all means, read this book.”

  —W. P. Kinsella, author of Shoeless Joe (the basis for the film Field of Dreams)

  “Imaginative baseball stories for long rain delays and hot stove league nights.”

  —Darryl Brock, author of If I Never Get Back and Two in the Field

  “Unique and wonderfully twisted.”

  —Ed Asner, actor

  “Great storytelling for fans and nonfans alike. Bob Weintraub has big-league talent.”

  —Dan Shaughnessy, author of The Curse of the Bambino and columnist for the Boston Globe

  “The prevailing trend seems to be to reduce baseball to numbers, to take out the adjectives and hyperbole, eliminating the descriptions of facial tics and personal travails and sunsets, to treat the game as some algebraic problem stretched across a blackboard in the basement of stats guru Bill James or some other math junkie. I myself prefer my baseball with the imagination left in, thank you very much. This collection of deft stories by Robert Weintraub takes us back to the bleachers and locker rooms, to the people who actually play and watch the game. Very nice. Very nice, indeed.”

  —Leigh Montville, New York Times bestselling author of The Big Bam: The Life and Times of Babe Ruth and Ted Williams: The Biography of an American Hero

  “The world might have had its fill of good stories ‘about’ baseball, but I’m not sure it has had any that are ‘like’ baseball, until now. Bob Weintraub’s sly, slippery tales carry within them something of baseball’s very own cockeyed relationship to reality—the real game within a reality of artifice. They also convey, in a singular, accessible language, those acts of grace, coincidence, and improbably heroics that keep America tethered to its pastime. These stories are as faithful to the spirit of a ballgame as a box score, yet with all the color of a yarn told in a clubhouse during a rain delay.”

  —Michael Coffey, author of 27 Men Out: Baseball’s Perfect Games

  “Like lots of good stories set in baseball, the entries in Painting the Corners Again are less about baseball than they are about people and the curveballs they throw each other. Of at least one of the stories, O. Henry would have been proud.”

  —Bill Littlefield, host of NPR and WBUR’s Only a Game

  Other Books by Bob Weintraub

  Best Wishes, Harry Greenfeld (2002)

  My Honorable Brother (2014)

  Painting the Corners (2014, 2017)

  Copyright © 2015, 2018 by Bob Weintraub

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Tom Lau

  Cover photo credit: iStock.com/CSA-Archive

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2533-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2535-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to the game of baseball, our national pastime, that binds one generation to both the next generation and the one after that. Baseball gives the Dad a sense of pride and joy, and his young son a memory to cherish for life when they go together to the boy’s first major league game at the local stadium. It introduces the child to that marvelous habit of checking the box scores each day to see how his heroes performed the day before, and then learning how to keep score of a game himself. By then he is anxious to be taught the basics of the sport in Little League or just hang out at the nearby ballpark, and gains confidence as he spends those long summer days hitting and fielding the baseball with his pals from just after breakfast to just before sundown. It gives the young man who has practiced hard and often the chance to be a teammate (and perhaps even a hero) in high school and college, learning about loyalty, grit, and determination, while Dad takes an afternoon off whenever he can to sit in the stands, root for his son and hope the game gives him a reason to shout, “That’s my boy!” Soon enough that same young adult, the New Dad, will be taking his own son to his first game and setting the process in motion again. Dad (now Grandpa) will hardly be able to wait until that grandson is old enough to wear the mitt that he wore as an adult, including his midlife switch to softball. But before finding a place for it on a closet shelf, he’ll rub it down with neats-foot oil and tie a baseball snugly into its pocket. If he’s nimble enough, Grandpa will take the boy aside, even in the living room, to show him how certain plays should be made and, of course, how to hold the bat to lay down a successful bunt. And all too quickly, the little boy who on that beautiful day was brought to the big league ballpark by his Dad will be taking his “old man” to a game now and then while the opportunity is still there. They’ll talk baseball for a few hours, enjoy the hot dogs and beer, reminisce about the games and players they remember best and love every minute of their time together.

  CONTENTS

  A Dog Day in Dyersville

  The Right Pitch for Cuba

  Matters of Principle

  Just One to Go

  Wives and Lovers

  When the Spirit Moves You

  Bobby and Me

  A Corner for Love

  Little League Home Run

  All in the Family

  Hot Corner Blues

  Trade-Off

  Her Beauty Was Just Skin Deep

  Catch Me, Catch Me

  A DOG DAY IN DYERSVILLE

  “The other day they asked me about mandatory drug testing. I said I believed in drug testing a long time ago. All through the sixties I tested everything.”

  —Bill Lee

  IT WAS DURING the cab ride to the airport Sunday evening that Albie Knox first told his wife about his plans for Wednesday, the last day of baseball’s three-day Major League All-Star Game break.

  “We can sleep late tomorrow morning, and then I’m due at the ballpark by one o’clock. They’ll have a bus to take all us American League players there. There’s two hours scheduled for pictures and interviews, and then each team has an hour for batting practice. All the wives and girlfriends are supposed to be at the park at the same time for the lunch they’re throwing you. They may have another bus to take you there, but you’ll find out for sure tomorrow morning. And after lunch you’re getting a tour of a couple of museums in the city.”

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Anyway, the players will eat dinner in the clubhouse because everyone’s supposed to stick around for the home run hitting contest. That starts at seven and goes about two hours. The whole thing’s on TV. So I don’t expect to get back to the hotel until about eleven. You don’t have to stay for the contest, honey. I know you’ll root for me wherever you are, and watching it is boring as hell. Go back to the hotel and have dinner in that new restaurant you read to me about.” />
  “Casa Roberto,” she said.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, “and the game starts Tuesday night at eight, so I’m guessing we’ll have to be in uniform by four. I’ll rest up in the room until it’s time to go, and you can take a taxi over to Comiskey whenever you want. Just don’t start out too late because there’ll be a lot of traffic in that direction and you’ll owe the driver a fortune if the highway turns into a parking lot.” He turned toward the window and took a deep breath. “Then Wednesday we’ll take a morning flight to Dubuque, Iowa and …”

  She cut him off. “What are you talking about? I’ve told you a hundred times I’m going shopping along the Miracle Mile on Wednesday. It’s my only chance before I go home Thursday. What in the world is in Dubuque?”

  “It’s not what’s in Dubuque, hon. We’ve got to rent a car there and drive to a town called Dyersville. That’s where the Field of Dreams is.”

  “The Field of Dreams? Do you mean that baseball movie a few years ago, the one with what’s his name?” She closed her eyes for a few seconds. “With Kevin Costner?”

  “Yeah. I’ve watched it in the clubhouse three or four more times and I want to go there. I want to see my father.”

  “Albie, you can’t be serious. That’s just a nice story someone wrote. Those players aren’t real. That’s just the movies. They can do anything like that.”

  Albie turned toward his wife, his arms moving up and down as he spoke. “I know it was a movie but I believe it. You can make things happen if you want them bad enough. I’m sure I can see my father and talk to him. He was a great minor league player, and a couple of the guys told me they heard the minor leaguers come to that field and play an all-star game the day after the major league one. I’ve got so much I want to say to him.”

  Nothing was said as they stared at each other for several seconds, she in disbelief, he in searching for something more to tell her to advance his proposal. “Besides, honey,” he continued, “you can shop during the day on Tuesday while I’m at the park, or you can change your ticket and go back on Friday.”

  Gloria Knox knew her husband well enough to realize the die had been cast. One of the things she loved most about him was his ability to express his emotions on things that mattered to him and to her also. She had learned to live with the fact that some of what he said or did in response to those emotions was unreasonable or incredible.

  “Okay Albie, we’ll go there on Wednesday. And I’ll leave it to you to get me a nonstop flight home on Friday.”

  Albie leaned closer to his wife, waited for her to look at him again and brushed a kiss across her lips. “Tuesday night in the game I’m going to hit one out for my father,” he said, then took her hand and held it until they reached the airport.

  Their flight to Dubuque didn’t leave O’Hare until 10:45 a.m. on Wednesday morning. That gave Albie ample time in the Continental Airlines lounge to read what several columnists had to say about the All-Star game played the night before and about his own heroics. Voted into the starting lineup in the outfield, he was in the game long enough to have three at bats. In order, Albie flied out to left field, forcing the outfielder to retreat to within several feet of the wall to make the catch; hit a line drive bullet off the center field wall that reached its destination so fast he had to hold up at first with a single; and then drove a ball to left, officially measured as travelling 432 feet, that the left fielder simply watched all the way without taking a single step toward the outfield fence. The home run drove in two runs in a game in which the American League was eventually victorious by one. Albie finished second in the voting as the game’s most valuable player, that honor bestowed on the team’s shortstop who had three singles, including the hit that drove in the winning run. But he was satisfied that the power he showed at the plate made up for the fact that he finished a disappointing sixth out of the eight players chosen to participate in the home run hitting contest two nights earlier. Albie felt that the pitcher throwing to him, a last minute substitute for the one he’d chosen but who had taken ill suddenly, put too few balls in his power zone, cutting down the number of chances he had to put the fat part of the bat on the baseball.

  He and Gloria rented a car in Dubuque and drove the twenty-five miles into Dyersville, home of the Field of Dreams, stopping on the way for lunch at Bellevue’s Castle. Albie thought it was a good sign that the Inn and Restaurant dated back to 1893, exactly one hundred years earlier.

  “What’s in that gym bag you brought?” she asked.

  “My uniform shirt and cap,” he answered. “I’m going to put them on. I want my Dad to see I’m a major league player. And I’ve got my glove so he and I can play catch while we’re talking.”

  “Well just don’t feel too bad if you don’t see him or any other players out there.”

  “I’m going to see him, honey. I’m sure of it.”

  It was one thirty in the afternoon when they arrived at the Field of Dreams. Only one other car was in the parking lot, and as they walked toward the field Albie saw a man and woman sitting in the bleachers along the first base line. He was surprised that the bleachers behind third base that he remembered seeing in the movie were no longer there. A sign on the walkway notified visitors that the farmhouse adjacent to the field was privately owned and not part of the attraction.

  “That’s too bad,” Albie said. “I wanted to see what the whole scene looked like from the porch over there, from higher up.”

  “At least you’ve got all that corn growing out there,” Gloria said. “I thought this time of year it might only be about a foot high. It looks beautiful from here.”

  A small building, below the level of the farmhouse and painted red on the outside, bore a “Souvenirs” sign on the door. “Let’s go in here, hon,” Albie said. “Maybe they’ve got a picture of my father I can buy.”

  It was a small shop, hardly satisfying with its lack of variety. Albie had no interest in looking at the jackets, caps, and bats that took up most of the space. The woman behind the cash register informed him that the only baseball cards they had on hand were ones for Shoeless Joe Jackson and Moonlight Graham. “They’re the only ones people are interested in,” she said. She confessed that she didn’t know the names of any other players shown in the movie, and was unaware of any occasion, in the three years she’d been employed there, on which any visitors claimed to see ballplayers on the field. Gloria looked at her husband, expecting to see disappointment written on his face, but he smiled at the clerk and told her there was always a first time for everything. He purchased two dozen baseball cards, intending to give one to each of his Orioles teammates, and they left the shop.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s take a seat in the bleachers.”

  The older couple Albie had seen earlier were still the only ones there, seated in the top row, just five rows up from the ground. He and Gloria made their way up to the same level and exchanged greetings with them.

  Who’d you come to see?” Albie asked the man, smiling at him.

  “I don’t really expect to see anyone, but I keep hoping whenever we come here. If I had my choice, it would be Ty Cobb, Lou Gehrig, and the Babe, of course. Saw them all play when I was younger. That was in the twenties and thirties, a little before your time.” He took off his cap and showed it to Albie. “The ‘W’ on there’s for Washington.

  My dad bought this for me for less than two bucks the day we saw Walter Johnson outpitch Lefty Grove. If I could choose a pitching match today, it would be Satchel Paige against Warren Spahn, but Spahn’s still breathing so I’ll go with Lefty Grove. How about you, come to see anyone?”

  “Yeah, my dad. He was a hell of a minor-league ballplayer, but never made it to the majors. I’ve seen him come out of that cornfield a few times in my dreams and I’m sure it’s going to happen today. They’re supposed to be playing a minor-league all-star game this afternoon.”

  The man seemed slightly confused as he looked at Albie. “I didn’t know they were
putting out schedules for this,” he replied, but he was curious about what Albie had said and didn’t wait for a response.

  “What was your father’s name?”

  “Arthur Knox. He was in the Milwaukee Braves system, a third baseman, damn good fielder but a light hitter. His last three years were in Triple-A with the Louisville Colonels, but he wasn’t going anywhere with Eddie Mathews at third for the Braves.”

  “I don’t recall the name,” the old man said. “But Knox, are you Albie Knox from the Orioles?”

  “I guess I am,” he answered. He turned the other way to look at Gloria and wink, happy to be recognized.

  “Well, I saw you on TV last night hit that ball out of the park. Four hundred something feet, the announcer said. The Babe would have been proud of you on that one.”

  “Yeah, I caught it real good. I was guessing slow curve and that’s what he threw me. Last time I saw him he fanned me on the same pitch.” Albie opened the duffel bag, took out the uniform shirt and cap and put them on.

  “Well, I think we ought to introduce ourselves. I’m Preston Hollander and this is my wife, Daisy. We’re from St. Joe, Michigan, right on the lake.”

  “And this is Gloria,” Albie said.

  The two men shook hands, and the women, who were in the bookend positions, smiled and waved at each other.

  “How many times have you been here?” Albie asked.

  “This is our third, and it will be the last if nothing happens today.”

  “How come you came back again?” Gloria asked.

  “To give it one good chance,” Hollander said. “The first time we stopped at a couple of places along the way and got here to the field late in the afternoon, when the sun was starting to set. There was no one on the field when we reached the bleachers, but I could see some of the corn stalks moving in just one place out there, where left center field is, where they went in and out from in the movie, and I figured we had just missed seeing them. There was no wind at all that day, so there was no other reason for that corn to be swaying like it was. And you know, it stopped after just a few seconds. Daisy saw it too, although she doesn’t believe in any of this.”