The Southpaw

by Mark Harris

  We had a meeting in the hotel that afternoon, and the boys voted shares of the third-place money. They voted me 100 dollars, which was good enough pay for 1 inning of work, and then we broke up, and it was sad because you knowed there was some amongst us that had played their last games in the big time. Next year they would be on their way down, down and down to nowheres.

  Yet I was happy, for I was on the way up, and I said to Lindon, “I guess we are sitting on top of the world, away up in the clouds, and the gate is open and the music is playing,” and Lindon said the same.

  Chapter 15

  ME AND Lindon and Piss Sterling and Gil Willowbrook was planning to take in the start of the Series in Brooklyn together, but then I never went. I don’t know why. Something just come over me. On top of that I promised Al Mellon I would get up on the TV between innings and reel off a little speech on razor blades, and I even learned it by heart like he asked me to, “Yes, Al, in my estimation these are the finest blades on the market. I have tried them all, and I know. These are my choice for a smoother shave, a cleaner shave, a shave that gives me that pleasant good-to-be-alive-all-over feeling. Fans, take my word for it, penny for penny THIS is your most dependable buy.” (SMILE BROADLY), and then I was supposed to hold the package up in front of the camera and smile broadly like shaving to me was the equal of a broiled steak. But then I got thinking about Holly and Pop and I went straight home from Boston instead. I sometimes recite that speech in the clubhouse with a few little twists and turns in the dialogue, and then I hold up a jockstrap or a roll of toilet paper or something of the sort and smile broadly from ear to ear. The boys always get a great laugh.

  I no sooner hit Perkinsville when Bill Duffy grabs me at the station and tells me there is this great spontaneous demonstration about to take place on the square. There was a banner flung across the waiting room saying “WELCOME HOME, HENRY WIGGEN,” and a band in the street below playing “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” and the Perkinsville High anthem, and Mayor Real come forward and pumped my hand several times for the photographer from the “Clarion” and give me a cardboard key to the city. I hadn’t no particular objection to this sort of thing, but I was hungrier then hell and wanted to get home.

  Bill said forget it. “Get in the spirit of things,” he said, and he sat me on a platform on the square set up behind the statue of Mr. Cleves with about 15 big shots, storekeepers and politicians and such, and every damn 1 of them got up and made a speech. Bill was the m.c. Never a 1 of them forgot to mention their place of business, though about half of them forgot to mention me. 1 of them remembered me but had the idea I was with Brooklyn. They read off a list of things they was to give me, each from their own store, and some of the things was sent to me, too, although some of them I had to go down and fetch myself.

  There was a terrific crowd at first, but then it begun to drizzle a bit and some folks took off, and frankly between the rain and the speeches I could not blame them.

  Finally Bill auctioned off this picture of me, about 6 feet high all drawed in color by B. C. Donaldson, the top artist of Perkinsville. He had me all dressed up in a Mammoth uniform with the blue sky behind and an assinine smile on my face, the only thing wrong with the picture being that the word “Mammoths” was wrote across my chest. Actually “New York” is on the shirt, and Borelli bought it for 150 dollars and hung it in his shop over the coat-hooks where Sam Yale used to be. I do not know where the picture is now, and I do not care. To tell you the truth I thought it was corny.

  Mayor Real called on me to say a few words. I did not know what to say. I stammered around awhile, saying I was glad to be home about 9 times. I suppose it was a stupid speech though no worse then some of the others. Then I signed about 100 autographs for the kids, and then I drifted off towards home.

  After dinner we sat out front, me and Pop and Holly, on chairs in the grass. The rain had passed over, and it was a fine night, and cool, and I told them all that happened from the time I left. It was all new to them, for I had not wrote a letter all spring and all summer. Many a time I would sit down and start a letter, and then along would come meal time, or time to sleep, or time to go to the ball park, or time to catch a train, and the letter would stop dead where it was, and then when I looked at it again it seemed stale and out of date, and I would tear it up and throw it away. Holly sent me some letters with a postcard inside, all addressed, but it seemed like I lost them, or if I wrote them I never remembered to drop them in the box. So I had to tell them everything myself now that I was home.

  After awhile Aaron Webster come over with some fireflies in a bottle. He sat down on the grass beside my chair, and he set the bottle of flies beside him, and he tucked his knees up under his chin, and he listened, and I talked on and on.

  Then it was late, and Pop said, “I guess there is now nothing more I can tell you about the game of baseball, for Sad Sam Yale has told you all.” I suppose I laid it on a bit thick about me and Sam, probably giving the impression that we was a good deal chummier then we was. Actually the whole month of September he had 2 bits of advice for me, telling me for 1 thing shut up and number 2 go f— myself, and Pop straightened and stretched and went indoors, and Aaron upped and went off down the road swinging the bottle all lighted with flies.

  Then it was quiet, and there was only me and Holly, and we talked that night about a million things or more, just talking to be talking, and I remember how quiet and peaceful it was and how I discovered for the first time in 20 years that I was beginning to enjoy a little peace and quiet in life about as well as anything else.

  I guess that is the thing I remember most about the whole winter—how quiet it was—how nothing much happened and yet it was a good winter and I was not all in a dither to hurry it through like the winters before. Probably this sounds peculiar coming from a fellow that in the spring stood a good chance to land a notch with the New York Mammoths. Yet that was how it was, and no sense hiding it or telling it otherwise.

  It was the winter of the blizzard. I was at Holly’s when it broke. The snow piled up higher and higher and we built a fire in the fireplace, and I did not leave because I figured it soon would stop, but it did not stop, and I did not leave, and we burned the wood slow to keep from running out, and I laid on the sofa in front of the fire with my head on Holly’s lap, and she sat with her legs tucked up beneath her. Her face looked upside down, yet even upside down I come to the view that it was a pretty face, and I liked to look at it, even upside down, and I laid there and looked up at her, and she read to me out of a number of books. Her chin waggled up and down and up and down when she read, and I watched it, and I laughed, and she said my face was just as upside down to her as hers to me, and I reached up behind her head and drug it down to me, and I give her an upside down kiss.

  She read a good deal from the books. There was 1 on psychology and 1 on God, but not so dry as you might think. She also read to me from the book called “Huckleberry Finn” that I had read before and could not see much sense in plowing through again, but she said the second time was better then the first. Generally I would say it is a waste of energy to read a book once, let alone twice. But it is no chore to read a book any number of times if you can lay straight out with your head in somebody’s lap and close your eyes and listen. You can picture all the action in your mind as you go.

  There was 2 days of snow, and then it stopped, and I was even a little sorry. Yet I guess it was a good thing, for I had to keep moving and not put on weight, and we walked in the snow clear to Perkinsville in high boots and back, and after that every day we walked a little, 5 miles or so, and my legs stood as strong as they was in the summer, and my wind, and my weight stood put and my appetite was good, and I slept like a bear all winter.

  The more I slept the faster the time would go. The next best thing to sleeping is keep busy and never look at the calendar, and the time goes quick. I refereed basketball at the Hebrew Association, and I went to some dinners and made a few speeches for boys and 2
lunch clubs. I pulled Holly on a sled with the rope across my chest like a horse, and we went skating down on the creek where I was bit on the elbow by the bug that time.

  Then it was Christmas, and then it was January, and soon afterwards the sun come out strong, and the snow got lower and lower. You could see where it left a wet mark on the side of the houses, and every now and then you would look up and see a great cluster of snow come down off a roof or a tree, and you could see patches of ground peeping through.

  And what clinched it for me was my contract in the mail on the fourth of February. There is a law which says that they have got to mail them out no later then February 1. Otherwise clubs would mail them late to keep holdouts down to a minimum. But I had no intentions of holding out, for it was a good contract—8,500 plus maybe a Series share—and we signed it and shot it right back.

  The night before I left Holly read to me out of a book that I did not understand much of. The whole point was that the richer you are the better chance you have to get along in life, and if you are poor you had best go about mending your ways, which I did not need no book to tell me, and I said so, and I rose up and took the book away and throwed a heap of wood on the fire, and then I made her lay out the straight way on the sofa, and I laid beside her, and we talked a long, long time, half the night at least. I said a number of tender things which I need not repeat, for they are altogether too rich for the daytime, yet they was all true, and I meant them, every word, for now that I was leaving I knowed that I would miss her and I said so in so many words, and she called me “Henry the Navigator,” which is what she calls me when she is in the tenderest frame of mind.

  “Henry the Navigator,” said she, “it will be a long time, and I do wish I would hear from you personal and not have to read about you in the papers.” Then she give me the best advice anyone ever give me concerning baseball and how to play it. She said, “Henry, you must play ball like it does not matter, for it really does not matter. Nothing really matters. Play ball, do your best, have fun, but do not put the game nor the cash before your own personal pride,” and I said I would. I loved her and would of said most anything, and in the heat of it all I asked her would she marry me. She said no. “But we will see what Old Father Time brings forth,” she said.

  In the morning I was up and gone. I parked in my slot in the depot, and I got the early train out. I had 100 dollars in my money belt, and I still had it tucked in my belly when I undressed the following night in the hotel in Aqua Clara. I was no more a green punk.

  Chapter 16

  YOU can tell a ballplayer from a punk by the cut of his clothes and the way he walks and the way he handles himself, not only on the field but off. I remember the first morning in Aqua Clara last spring I was woke by the train and I went over to the window and stood there looking down when the train drawed to a stop at the station below. About a dozen got off plus 4 colored chaps way down in the last car, and you could tell they was punks by the way they piled off, spilling out like marines in a newsreel and standing there blinking in the sun, looking all dazed and bewildered. You could tell they was rooks by the seedy old bags they toted, all wore and cracked and hung together with straps and cord. You could tell by their clothes. Mostly they wore jackets, and there was names and numbers on the jackets standing for high schools and clubs where the boys played before, and some of them wore sneakers without no socks. They set out across town, straggling along together like you seen school kids do, going down the street in a pack.

  There was twice as many on the noon train, and I watched them again, except that there was 1 that was different, and I knowed the instant I laid eyes on him that here was a ballplayer, and the way I could tell he was dressed in the best and his bag had a bright shine, and he walked cocky. He did not come diving off the train like a marine. He come down slow, after all the rest, and he carried his bag easy and swung away from the punks and towards the hotel.

  It turned out that it was Bub Castetter that been sent down to Q. C. when I come up. He was back for another try. I never met him before, but I knowed him when I seen him close, just before he went under the awning in front. Except for me he was the first of the club in camp.

  I thought maybe we might grab a bite together, and I timed it right and met him on the stairs coming up. There was a bellboy with him, carrying his bags, all dressed up like an Admiral like they do down there, and I give Bub a hello and a big pleasant smile. “Hello punk,” he said, and he went on past me and up the stairs.

  That first night I had the regular blues, lonesome as the moon and not a soul to talk to. I halfway thought of going and asking Bub what bug he was bit by. But I give up that idea and stripped down. I read the Aqua Clara paper through twice, and I read some in the hotel Bible, about 20 chapters. 1 thing I will say for that book, a chapter ain’t no trick a-tall. About 10 o’clock another train come through, and I stood at the window. There was the usual gang of punks, plus a dozen or more that headed towards the hotel, but it was too dark to see who. I was sure there was ballplayers amongst them, for I could tell by the way they walked, and there was some writers, too, waddling along with their machines in their hand. Then I could see that 1 of the ballplayers was Sad Sam Yale, and I dressed quick and shot out of there and met him on the stairs and stuck out my hand, and he stuck out his and give me a shake. “Hello punk,” he said, and he went on past me.

  I would of followed but I seen Red Traphagen behind, and he seen me and winked and asked me how my flipper was.

  I remember to this day Red standing there and asking me how my flipper was. I do not know why I remember, yet I do. You will have pictures in your mind of certain ballplayers doing certain things. I remember Sad Sam with his hat over his heart and the band playing the day me and Pop went to the Opener in New York, and I remember him standing and watching from the dugout door the day I relieved against Boston, the first inning I ever pitched for the Mammoths.

  And Red I remember coming back towards the screen, all loaded down in his gear, his mask and cap throwed off and his hair in the wind that very same day at the Opener, and I remember him standing there that night, his hair all red and asking me how was my flipper. Then he asked me up to his room, and we went. Red used to room with Monk Boyd until Sid Goldman eased Monk out of a job and Monk got traded away to Washington. Now he rooms with George Gonzalez, and they talk Spanish together. Sometimes I sit around and listen to them talk and never understand a word. George was not yet in camp, so there was only Red and me, and he asked me what I done all winter, and I told him, and he told me what he done, which was mostly play handball in California to keep his weight down.

  He was in good spirits that night, and I forgot how lonesome I was. He said he believed we would have a good year. “If the youngsters come through,” he said. “That is the big thing.” He asked me did Ugly Jones sign yet, and I said no, not according to the papers, and he asked me who all was in camp, and I told him. He told me some stories about Ugly, and some about George, and some about the club in general. Some of them I could not follow exactly. Red is fairly deep, and sometimes he will set his tongue to wagging and I can no more follow him then Aaron Webster, and he might as well be talking Spanish to George for all of me. He asked me this and that about Mike Mulrooney—did Mike still head for church all the time? I said he went fairly regular. I remembered what Mike said about steering clear of Red off the field, but I said nothing to Red about that, besides which I liked him and like him yet, though many people do not. He told me he believed I depended too much on too many screwballs.

  “Dutch says I throw too many fast balls,” I said.

  “When did he say that?” said Red.

  “2 springs ago,” said I.

  “At contract time?” said Red.

  “Yes,” I said, “2 springs ago at contract time.”

  “That is what I thought,” said Red. “The bastard. He knows better.”

  That seemed a poor way for a ballplayer to talk about his own manager. “He was just
doing what he considered best,” I said.

  “Best for who?” said Red.

  Well, that’s Red for you. He can be very sarcastic at times. You got to get used to him. His motto is: never be cheery if you can possibly be gloomy, and I passed it off and went on to other things. Before we knowed it it was midnight, and we sent down for sandwiches and Coke, and then I went back to my room. I felt good.

  By Monday all the pitchers and catchers was in camp plus Dutch and the coaches and Patricia Moors and Bradley Lord and Doc Loftus and Doc Solomon and Mick McKinney and about 2 truckloads of writers plus a slew of people that hung around the park and the hotel but never, so far as I could see, had any sort of a job to keep them occupied.

  All except Bruce Pearson. Bruce is the third-string catcher. He might catch 5 or 6 games a year, but mostly he warms pitchers in the bullpen. Every year he comes 2 days late to camp because he ties 1 on on the way down. He don’t drink except once a year, and then he goes the whole hog and drinks for 2 days in Jacksonville and Dutch has got to send Bradley Lord, and Bradley has got to hunt around for Bruce and find him and wait till he is done. Then he puts him on a bus to Aqua Clara, and when he gets there Doc Loftus works him over awhile and Mick McKinney works him over some more, and after about 6 hours Bruce is as good as new.

  The sad part is that there is never much work for him. Yet a ballplayer has got to play ball like a singer has got to sing and an artist has got to draw pictures and a mountain climber has got to have a mountain to climb or else go crazy. That’s the way it is, and that is why things look so dark for Bruce every spring.

  Dutch called the first workout for 10:30 that Monday, and we worked 2 sessions, from 10:30 to noon and then again from 1 to half past 2, sandwiches and milk in between plus a special energy orange drink Doc Loftus invented. I guess you would hardly call it work. At least it did not seem to be work to me, although it hit some of the others harder. We done some exercises, and we jogged about a bit, halfway around the park and walked the rest. Then we laid down in the clubhouse awhile. Those that needed a rub from Mick McKinney got it. It is always the older fellows that need their rub the worst, Sad Sam and Hams Carroll and Knuckles Johnson and Horse Byrd, and 1 after the other they laid on the table and got the works.