Chapter 7
AFTER a Wednesday game, John McGraw pulled Skip aside. They wound up in an office, seated with Mr. Thompson, who Skip recognized as one of the team lawyers. The bottom dropped out of Skip’s stomach as he looked around the room, fearing a number of possibilities: he was being fired or traded; he might have to move out of New York and away from Walt; his affair with Walt had been discovered. He wiped the cold sweat from his brow and looked at McGraw, hoping this would be over quickly.
McGraw glanced at Mr. Thompson and waited expectantly.
“You’ve done some great things on this team,” McGraw started.
This is it, Skip thought. They’re going to kick me off the team.
Logically, he couldn’t think of a reason why he would lose his slot on the team. He’d been playing well lately. He got along well with his teammates. He was queasy anyway. Thompson said, “The article about you in the Times was quite complimentary.”
“Oh.” Skip wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say.
“It was good press for the Giants, certainly. And Walter Selby has always been a friend to the team.”
Skip tried not to react to the utterance of Walt’s name. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable and now even more worried about the direction this was going.
“You’ve been seen around town with him a lot,” Thompson said.
“We, ah, became friends after the article,” Skip said. That seemed reasonable. He wasn’t sure if these men would know more than that was going on with Walt. In Skip’s experience, people tended not to jump to those sorts of conclusions, although now he worried it was simply his friendship with Walt that had gotten Skip in trouble. Maybe players weren’t supposed to fraternize with the press. Maybe they were on to Walt.
“You’re young and new to the city,” said McGraw. “So you may not realize this. But Walt Selby is—”
McGraw closed his mouth abruptly and looked at Thompson, who shrugged. “They called him the Dapper Dandy for a while.” Then, more slowly, Thompson added, “He does add a bit of style and class to the sport.”
“He’s a fag,” McGraw said.
Skip felt like he’d been punched. He sat back in his chair, absorbing some of the venom in McGraw’s pronunciation of that word. Fag. He’d just used it with Walt not that long ago, but it wasn’t a friendly word, not in this context.
“I know this may come as a surprise,” said Thompson.
“You know what that means, kid?” said McGraw. “Walt Selby, he’s a swell guy, but at the end of the day, he spends time in the company of other men. You get it?”
“I understand,” said Skip.
Thompson sat up and leaned forward. “Has he tried anything with you?”
“No. No, of course not,” Skip said. “Just showed me around the city. Took me to a few shows.”
“He’s got his sights on you,” McGraw said. “You gotta be careful, Skip. You’re too trusting.”
“You can’t be seen with him anymore,” Thompson said. “There will be talk. People will get ideas.”
Skip bristled at that. He couldn’t be seen with Walt anymore? How did going places with him in public matter? “But he’s my friend.”
“I appreciate that,” Thompson said. “But during the regular season, when all eyes are on us? Particularly now that we’re in the pennant race? The team doesn’t need any negative press. It’s bad enough that we have to compete with the Yankees for reporters’ attention. If the story becomes a rumor about our rookie hitter and not about how well we’re playing, that’s bad news for the team.”
“That big ape Ruth is stealing all the attention,” McGraw said. “He’s a clown, but the fans and the reporters like him. You do anything that brings bad attention to this team, well….”
“You understand our concern, surely,” said Thompson.
“The owner will take action,” said McGraw. “Hell, I’ll do something. This team, we’ve beat the Yankees a time or two in the World Series, and I intend to do it again. But that’s not possible if you do something that will bring shame on the team.”
Skip looked between the two men. He couldn’t believe this was happening. “So you could fire me just for spending time with a friend?”
“Walt Selby is not your friend,” said McGraw. “A man like that… he’s not the sort of man one calls a friend.”
Skip felt backed into a corner. He thanked McGraw and Thompson for sharing this information with him. In a daze, he walked back to the locker room and changed into street clothes. All the time he’d spent with Walt really experiencing the city flashed through his mind, all the dancing and shows and booze. He’d seen bands play marvelous music, he’d danced until his feet were sore, he’d gotten a little zozzled on moonshine, and through all of it, Walt had been at his side, steering the way and showing him things he’d never seen before. But now he couldn’t be seen with Walt anymore?
As Skip suspected might happen, Walt was waiting for him when he left the locker room.
“I can’t talk here,” Skip said under his breath.
Walt nodded. “Did something happen?”
Skip shrugged. He couldn’t get into it now, not when people were just around the corner who could watch him.
“Skip,” Walt breathed.
“Not now.”
It wasn’t just that he didn’t feel safe talking to Walt in the stadium. Skip couldn’t handle this situation. He was inches from screaming at someone, from losing his grip, from losing his mind. He had too much dancing around his head, too many thoughts about what he should do and what he wanted. He wanted Walt, but he wanted baseball too, and when forced to choose one over the other, he couldn’t decide which he wanted more.
So he walked out of the stadium.
AT HOME that night, Skip sat on the couch and listened to the radio while Joe and Mickey buzzed around. He realized he hadn’t had a quiet night at home since he’d met Walt. It should have been a relief, but instead, he felt sad and a little empty. He’d used the public telephone in the hall and managed to catch Walt at home, but all he’d told Walt was “I can’t tonight.” Walt had tried to argue, and then he’d asked what was wrong, but Skip had just murmured, “Nothing,” and hung up.
The apartment was hot. Joe joked about getting the older woman who lived in the apartment downstairs to make them some lemonade. Mickey told him not to be an idiot. Skip just sat on the sofa with a wet towel pressed to his head. He let the moderately cool water drip down his face, which gave him a little relief.
“No plans with your sweetheart tonight?” Mickey asked.
“Nah,” Skip said.
“Sometimes you do need a break,” said Joe. “I’m going to go see Estelle tonight, though. She wants to go to this speakeasy on the West Side that’s supposed to have some really great white lightning. Rum right off the boats that are floating offshore. It’s probably bull, but worth a shot, right? I heard Babe Ruth likes to drink at this place.”
“The Bambino likes to drink any place,” Mickey said.
“You boys want to come along?” Joe asked.
Mickey shrugged. “Sure, maybe. Where is this place?”
“Uh. Eleventh Avenue, I think. Off Fifty-Seventh Street.”
“Think there will be any pretty flappers there?”
Skip laughed despite his sour mood. “Aren’t all flappers pretty?”
Mickey balked. “No. Definitely not. There was this bird at the place Joe and I went last week…. What was that place called?”
“Dunno. I didn’t like it, though. Pretty sure the Mob runs it.”
Mickey shrugged. “The Mob owns most of the speakeasies, Joe. Don’t be an idiot. Anyway, there was this bird, and she was tall as the Woolworth Building, and I thought, that’s a doll I’d like to know. So I walked up to her and I says, ‘I’m Mickey. I play for the Giants,’ and so she turns to me, and… oh. What a face this girl had.”
“She was a bug-eyed Betty,” said Joe. His eyes were wide, like he was still a little t
raumatized by it. “That’s why I love Estelle. She’s a swell gal, but she’s also beautiful.”
“You’re a lucky man,” said Mickey.
“I mean, she’s not just beautiful. She’s really smart, too. We have a good time together.”
Skip sighed. He pulled the towel away from his face. The little bit of remaining water was too warm to cool him off. “I’m not feeling so well, boys. I think I’ll stay in tonight.”
“Suit yourself,” said Joe. “Go get dressed, Mickey. We’ll find you a pretty girl for the night.”
Joe and Mickey retreated to their respective rooms to change for the night. Skip stayed on the couch, wearing old pants and an undershirt, the water from the towel rapidly drying. He gave some thought to going out with Joe and Mickey. It could be fun. They’d gone out together a lot when Skip had first moved in. Mickey, who had a face only a mother could love, often struggled with talking to women, for all his bravado. Joe was so head over heels over Estelle that he hardly saw other women. Skip was happy to hang in the background, or to be polite to any women who approached him. He envied Joe and Mickey their desires, wishing he could make himself like women the way they did, but that part of him didn’t seem to exist.
While part of Skip did want to go out that night and see what kind of trouble he could find, part of him also wanted to sit at home and wallow in the impossible decision he had to make.
He opted for wallowing. Joe and Mickey left a short time later. Skip turned up the volume on the radio.
Mr. Thompson—and John McGraw, for whom Skip had a lot of respect, even with his gruff demeanor—had basically given Skip an ultimatum. They couldn’t have known what kind of bind they were putting him in. If Skip and Walt had been just casual friends, Skip would have been able to make that decision easily: baseball ruled Skip’s life.
But Walt was not just a casual friend. Skip had never known anyone like Walt, had never had a regular thing with another man. He’d never had sex so good. He’d never had as much fun with anyone else. No one had ever seen Skip the way Walt did. When Skip was with Walt, he felt smart and good and handsome. He felt whole instead of broken. He felt better than he felt when he was alone.
How could he give up Walt? Walt made him a complete person.
But how could he give up baseball?
He spent the night brooding and listening to staticky jazz. Duke Ellington and his band took over the airwaves, reminding Skip of the nights he’d gone to the Cotton Club with Walt. He thought about nights spent with Walt listening to this kind of music live and in person, which made him think about nights spent in Walt’s bed, making their own kind of music.
Skip felt sick at the idea of having to make a decision.
The music on the radio changed to a song Skip recognized as Gershwin’s “The Man I Love.” Skip closed his eyes and lay against the couch. The room was so hot it threatened to suffocate him, which only made Skip feel worse. He sank into the couch cushions. He listened to the song, heard the lyrics, and frowned.
Walt was the man Skip loved.
Love was supposed to be a good feeling, wasn’t it? Something happy and joyful, something worth celebrating. But at the realization that he was in love with Walt, all Skip felt was sadness and fear. He felt broken again. There was no way for him to ever have what he wanted, no way for him to celebrate this love. Was there?
He had no idea what to do.
Chapter 8
IT HAD been two weeks since Walt had spoken to Skip at all. He was worried now, convinced something was terribly wrong. He’d tried to speak to Skip a few times at the stadium, but Skip had blown by him each time. He’d tried telephoning. In desperation, he’d even written a letter, albeit an ambiguously worded one he doubted Skip would or could read. Walt tried to piece together the last night they’d spent together, looking for where things had gone wrong, trying to figure out what he had done that had driven Skip away.
It was maddening not to be able to speak to Skip. Walt felt like some of the color had drifted out of his life. How could such a thing have happened? Walt wasn’t a man who let himself get tied down. He’d had regular sex partners before, men he spent time with, romantic attachments, but none who’d affected him the way Skip did. In Skip’s absence, he’d gone out the way he had before he met Skip, but it wasn’t the same. He worked and did some of the best writing of his life. He still credited Skip with being part of the Giants’ strategy for winning the pennant.
He left the newsroom and let himself feel some of the sadness he’d been keeping at bay ever since Skip had basically disappeared. It was so strange. Walt had really thought they had something.
He ran into Reinhold in the elevator. “Your carnation is looking a little droopy,” Reinhold said, pointing at Walt’s lapel.
Walt looked. Indeed, the petals were browning and wilting a bit. Then he realized it was the same yellow carnation he’d put there in the morning. “I suppose I forgot to change it.”
Reinhold laughed. “Really, Selby? In the four years I’ve known you, that is the one thing you do like clockwork every day. You never have a droopy flower on your lapel. The Dapper Dandy always looks impeccable.”
Walt bristled inwardly at the moniker and the teasing he was getting from Reinhold. Most days he could take it, he could even dish it out right back, but today he was not in the mood. He rubbed his forehead. “Guess I had a rough day.”
“Giants lose a whopper?”
“They won today, actually.” But Skip hadn’t talked to him after the game. Again.
“Well, gosh, Walt. Did your mother die? Why the long face?”
“It’s nothing.”
He was saved from having to explain by the elevator opening. He gave a little wave and then hurried through the lobby and plunged into the Times Square traffic, leaving Reinhold behind.
Walt’s apartment seemed especially empty when he got home. It looked sad, monochromatic, disappointing. Walt halfheartedly tidied it, but then gave up. He walked over to his bookcase and took a few books off it, hoping for a distraction. He had a copy of Fitzgerald’s The Beautiful and the Damned, which he tried reading for a while, but he couldn’t focus. He kept thinking about Skip and wondering what had gone wrong.
And then there was a knock at the door.
Walt had hope but low expectations as he went to the door, guessing his visitor was likely one of his neighbors needing something—money or a cup of sugar or whatever fool thing one of them could pester him about. He opened the door to Skip.
Skip looked bereft. His hair was mussed, he had dark circles under his eyes, and he looked even rougher than he had at the end of that day’s game. The first thing he did was put his arms around Walt and hug him tight.
When Walt heard the gasp of someone who was about to start sobbing, he pulled Skip into the apartment and kicked the door closed.
“Oh, Skip. Oh, baby, I missed you,” Walt murmured. “Where have you been?”
“Give me a minute,” Skip said, his face pressed into Walt’s shoulder. “Just let me hold you for a minute.”
Walt held Skip right back, hugging him tightly and memorizing the moment: Skip’s smell, the warmth of his body, the way he fit against Walt, the sounds he made. This felt fleeting, like Skip might be a figment of Walt’s imagination, destined to disappear again quickly and leave Walt with empty arms.
Eventually, Skip pulled away and said, “I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to talk to you. I still don’t know what to say, but I had to see you. I couldn’t stay away any longer.”
“What happened?”
Skip began to pace. “Giants management said I can’t be seen with you anymore because they know you’re… well, you know what you are. I could lose my job if they catch me with you again, if we continue to draw attention to ourselves. They’re making me choose, Walt. I have to choose between you and baseball.”
Walt understood instantly. “They talked to you two weeks ago?”
Skip nodded.
“Oh, ba
by.” Walt reached for him.
Skip stepped back. “John McGraw and the lawyers, they don’t know what a sacrifice they’re asking me to make. What they see when they look at me is a young, inexperienced boob who is new to the city and doesn’t know the ways of the world. They see the kid they think I am being led astray by a man they don’t approve of. They don’t know the real truth, and I can’t tell them. But I can’t make this choice. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for two weeks, and I just can’t decide. I can’t give up baseball, but I can’t lose you, either.”
“What exactly did they tell you?”
“I can’t be seen with you.” Skip began to pace. “They threatened me with my job if I continued to spend time with you in public. Said I couldn’t get any bad attention, especially not with the way the Yankees are playing. John McGraw wants us to win another World Series and thinks I could cause problems if the press says bad things about me.” He stopped moving and looked at Walt. “He called you a fag.”
“I suppose that’s not a secret.”
Skip gaped at Walt. “It doesn’t bother you that everybody knows?”
“It bothers me that people condemn us. My behavior has never hurt anybody.”
Skip resumed pacing. “What can I do, Walt? Is there something I don’t see?”
Walt gestured toward his sofa as a method of stalling while he thought about it. He waited for Skip to sit before he sat as well. He knew he couldn’t make Skip give up baseball for his sake. It was not only unfair to Skip, it was unfair to the game. How could Walt presume to pull a player in his prime from the sport? On the other hand, he’d been miserable these past two weeks without Skip. How had this man burrowed his way into Walt’s heart so quickly?
Well, the question didn’t matter much now. The damage was done and Walt’s heart was aching, not just with the potential for what he might lose, but for the decision Skip had been struggling to make.
Walt folded his hands in his lap, unwilling to touch Skip just yet in case he was unable to stop. “I’ve been covering sports in New York for six years, and I can tell you this: unless your name is Babe Ruth, nobody cares about you during the off-season. There are other sports for reporters to care about. More to the point, a lot of players leave town over the winter.”
Playing Ball Page 6