by Philip Roth
“They didn’t!” someone cried (someone perhaps in Mazuma’s employ?).
“Gentlemen of the press, I have asked you here to help me scotch this despicable lie of theirs before this boy goes out on the field today to have bestowed upon him the honors he earned yesterday with one mighty swing of his bat, and I remind you, against my own ball club. I am going to ask my little daughter, Doubloon, to come out here to assist Bud in removing his new Reaper shirt. She’s been clamoring all summer for a job out at the ball park, and I thought maybe this would be as good a time as any. Honey? Doubloon?”
Here a voluptuous young woman in brief white shorts and a clinging orange blouse (and the word “Over” stitched across her back, just above the number “21”) rushed in a clatter of high heels up to the microphone, kissed her daddy on the mouth, and then, to the applause and catcalls of the assembled reporters, began to fumble with the buttons of Bud’s uniform shirt.
“By the way,” ad-libbed Mazuma, “‘Doubloon’ doesn’t mean what some of you fellas think it does. Strange to say, it has nothing to do with things that come in pairs.”
The newspapermen had to chuckle at the famous Mazuma humor which he could direct even at the members of his own family.
“I’m all thumbs,” giggled Doubloon, as she loosened Bud’s belt so as to extract his shirttails from his trousers. “Oh what a stupid thing to say to you!” she cried, fluttering her eyelids at the new Kakoola Reaper.
“Nor,” said Mazuma, lighting up a cigar, “is ‘Doubloon’ a mispronunciation of the capital of Ireland, for all that this kid could get anybody’s Irish up, if you know what I mean by ‘Irish.’”
By now Bud’s shirt had been removed and Doubloon was drawing his orange sweatshirt out of his shorts.
“Actually,” said Mazuma, continuing with the witty patter, “‘Doubloon’ is just another way of saying ‘Do-re-mi.’ Tell the boys the names of your brothers and sisters, sweetheart.”
Turning momentarily from her task, she wiped the perspiration from her upper lip with a raised shoulder (“Oh baby!” cried one of the reporters, oddly moved by the gesture) and in her whispery voice, said, “Jack, Buck, Gelt, and Dinero.”
Then, with a little jump into the air, Doubloon yanked the sweatshirt over Bud’s head and the athlete was nude to the waist.
“Ucch,” cried Doubloon, unable to suppress a shiver of revulsion.
“Well,” said Mazuma, gravely now, “there it is, gentlemen. The truth for all to behold. Not a trace of a left arm. Not a suggestion of a left arm.”
Here, at a nod from Mazuma, the photographers surged forward and the room was incandescent with flashbulbs.
“How about from the back, Bud!”
“Smile, Bud, cheer up! This is your day, boy!”
“Make a muscle, Bud, with the one you got!”
“Cheese, Bud, cheese! Thatta boy!”
When the photographers receded—with a promise from Mazuma that there was more to come—one of the reporters said, “Frank, you may not like this, but how do we know that this isn’t some kind of trick make-up job such as they do in the movies? How do we know that Bud’s missing arm isn’t in fact hidden away under a phony layer of skin made out of wax or some such substance?”
“Doubloon,” said Mazuma, “would you do Daddy a favor? To assure the reporters that there’s no arm hidden away inside a false covering of skin, would you just pass your hand up and down Bud’s side?”
“Do what?”
“Just press lightly up and down his left side, so they see that it is really and truly him. Well, come on now, honey.”
“Oh, Daddy.”
“Now, Dubby, you’re the one who wanted a summer job, you know that. You’re the one who wanted to wear the number ‘Over 21,’ remember? You’re a big girl now and sometimes big people have to do things they don’t necessarily like to do. Touch his side, sweetheart.”
“Oh, Daddy, I can’t. It’s so uccchy.”
“Look, young lady, either you touch him as I tell you to, or I am going to put you over my knee! You may be over twenty-one, you know, but you’re still not too old for your daddy to give you a good old-fashioned spanking, press conference or no press conference!”
Here the photographers came surging forward again, cameras in the air.
“What a clown,” mumbled a reporter known to be no great admirer of Mazuma’s.
“Clown my ass, Smitty!” snapped the Reaper owner. “Do you think I want you boys leaving here half-believing that you’ve been had? Do you? Do you think I want the people of this country to suspect that the wife of the President of the United States, the First Lady of the Land, has asked somebody to be honorary co-chairman of the March of Dimes who has been disguised by me, Frank Mazuma, for reasons of publicity or profit, to look like some kind of freak, when in fact he isn’t? Do you think I want our brave allies to harbor the slightest suspicion that this is a country run by con-men and crooks? Do you boys know what Tokyo Rose could do with a little tidbit like this? Do you, Doubloon, my innocent daughter? Do you realize the kind of venom that Jap bitch could pour into the ears of—?”
“Oh, please,” cried Doubloon, “I can’t bear you, Daddy, when you sound like a minister!”
“And what’s wrong with sounding like a minister, may I ask? Since when is religion a dirty word in this country, may I ask?”
“Oh, all right, I’ll touch him—just stop lecturing me!”
“Okay then, okay,” said Mazuma, subsiding, and nodded to the photographers to get ready.
Doubloon meanwhile readied herself. First, she squeezed her eyes shut very tightly like a little girl preparing to swallow a spoonful of cod-liver oil. Then she rose up on tiptoes so that her narrow white heels came popping up out of her orange shoes (“Oh baby!” cried that same reporter, now moved apparently by the sight of her heels); and then, with great reluctance and much wiggling of the can, she extended the finger of one hand very, very slowly in the direction of Bud Parusha’s body, which all the while he had been standing shirtless before the crowd, had been turning a deep shade of crimson.
Because of the lightning storm of flashbulbs that accompanied the contact of Doubloon’s fingertip with Buddy’s flesh, the effect of her gesture upon the former Mundy was not immediately apparent. But when at last everyone’s vision was restored, there for all to see was a bulge of substantial proportions in Buddy’s new flannel trousers.
“My, my,” laughed the reporters.
Mazuma, never at a loss for words, quipped, “Well, gentlemen, I’ll tell you one thing my new right-fielder ain’t missin’,” and with that, brought the house down.
What a clown indeed. Is it any wonder that when Mazuma beckoned, the reporters came in droves? And is it any wonder that those like General Oakhart, who had struggled all their lives to prevent the great American game from becoming just another cheap form of popular entertainment, wished that Frank Mazuma, and all his kind, might be lined up against the outfield wall and shot?
* * *
The jubilant mood in which the press conference ended continued on through the pregame ceremonies of “Welcome Bud Parusha Day”—baseball stunts and feats of skill performed by the visiting Mundys. “Their tribute,” announced Frank Mazuma, to the forty-odd thousand who had of course turned out not to welcome Bud Parusha but to witness the return of Bob Yamm, “their tribute to their former teammate, a great ballplayer and an even greater human being, brother of the great Tycoon Parushas, now serving so gallantly with the United States Marines, Angelo and Tony—” here the fans rose and accorded Angelo and Tony a standing ovation that lasted two full minutes—“Bud Parusha!”
Scattered applause as Bud ran from the Reaper dugout waving his mitt at the stands. From the steps of the visitors’ dugout, the Mundys looked on in awe at Buddy all in home team white. How like a bride he seemed to them in their own tattered road uniforms of gray! Jolly Cholly, the kindest coach who ever lived, flashed the V for Victory sign—“Good luck, kid!” he
called, and Parusha was all at once washed over with an emotion so strong, so engulfing, that he even felt it in his missing limb. Take me back, cried the heart of the bride-to-be, take me back before it’s too late. Maybe you’re where I belong! But what American in his right mind ever wanted to be back with an eighth place team when he could be up with one in seventh? So, instead of bolting for the Mundy dugout, Bud continued on to home plate, to his deliverers, Mazuma and Doubloon.
And now the first of the Mundys who had agreed to perform that afternoon was introduced to the fans. On the sly, Mazuma had approached each of the disgruntled Ruppert players, but in the end only two of the regulars and one of the relief pitchers was so desperate, or so gullible, as to be taken in when the owner promised to make Reapers out of them too if they proved to be “crowd pleasers” in the manner of Buddy P.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mazuma announced into the mike that had been set up at home plate, “it is a pleasure and an honor to introduce to you the youngest player in the history of the major leagues, Mundy second-sacker, fourteen-year-old Nickname Damur!”
Nickname came charging full-speed from the visiting team’s dugout and made a perfect (and he hoped, crowd-pleasing) hook slide around Doubloon’s leg and into the plate.
“Cut it out,” snapped Doubloon.
“Reputed to be the fastest base runner in the game today—by those, that is, who’ve had the rare opportunity of seeing him on base—only kidding, Nickname!” quipped Mazuma, clapping the boy on the back, while the mob howled—“Nickname Damur is today going to match his speed around the bases with none other than the second cousin by marriage to the great Seabiscuit, my own Doubloon’s polo pony—Graham Cracker!”
Here a snorting little chestnut filly danced up out of the Reaper dugout. “Grahams!” called Doubloon, and she ran to where the batboy, who had led the horse up past the water cooler and on to the playing field, was holding the pony by the reins. “Oh Grammies!” cried Doubloon and buried her lips in the pony’s mane. Then, in high-heeled shoes, shorts, and blouse, she was hoisted up onto her mount by the batboy; her riding crop was tossed up to her and she was off—galloping all the way to the center-field wall and back.
“Graham Cracker will be carrying one hundred and seven pounds. Or,” said Mazuma, “to put it so that you folks who don’t follow the ponies understand, 38–22–36.”
Now Nickname and Graham Cracker lined up with their noses even at home plate and pointed in the direction of first base. “As you fans know,” said Mazuma, “thanks to General Douglas D. Oakhart there are still no pari-mutuel windows allowed in Patriot League parks. But speaking for myself and fun-loving men everywhere, I don’t see what’s to stop you from placing a friendly little wager with your neighbor…”
While the hubbub of betting excitement swept through the stadium, Doubloon took the opportunity to lean down across Graham Cracker’s neck, and as though talking into the horse’s ear, whispered to the Mundy second-baseman, “Wouldn’t crowd us on the turn, Nickname—not if you want to come out of this thing in one piece.”
And they were off!
“It’s Graham Cracker in the lead as they break from the plate,” announced Mazuma, dropping into a deep gravelly voice and firing his words like bullets—“It’s Graham by half a length down the first-base line! At the bag, Graham turns wide—and it’s Nickname making his dash on the inside as they head for second! And now they’re neck and neck, Nickname’s right there! So is Graham! They’re around second heading for third, and it’s Nickname now by a length, a length and a half with a third of the way to come—and now Graham Cracker is making her move as they pass the shortstop position! Graham Cracker is not beaten yet! She’s coming with a rush! If she don’t get blocked, she’ll give that Mundy an awful drive! Now they’re around third, they’re heading for home, and here comes Graham Cracker—” and now forty thousand screaming, hollering fans were on their feet, and even as Doubloon’s whip curled across his mouth, even as the blood sprang from his nose, Nickname could imagine victory—himself a Kakoola Reaper, second-baseman for an authentic big league team, a club with a park of its own, fans of its own, and an owner of whose presence you could never for a moment be in doubt—ah, but there was the blur of Graham Cracker pulling past him, and once again that whip as it flailed backwards to crack open the skin of his brow, and no, he would not be defeated, no, he would not be a Mundy for the rest of his born days—“Don’t!” hollered Jolly Cholly, as Nickname began to go into his slide—but he did, he did: at the risk of being crushed to powder beneath Graham Cracker’s four plunging legs, the ambitious fourteen-year-old, who wanted only to improve his lot in life (as who doesn’t?), who wanted only to better himself (as who wouldn’t?), went in under the horse’s hoofs.
“Crazy little prick!” cried Doubloon, and swerving to avoid a collision at the plate, allowed Nickname to spore. She herself went hurtling headlong out of the saddle and flew some thirty feet through the air, then bounced into the Mundy dugout, where Big John, taking her on the short hop, was able to squeeze just about whatever he wanted before the stretcher arrived to hurry the broken body of the unconscious young woman to the emergency operating room of Kakoola Memorial. Then, with forty thousand flabbergasted fans looking on—yes, even the Kakoola fans were staggered, even their expectations of a lively afternoon of thrills were exceeded by this calamitous turn of events—Mazuma borrowed a pistol from a stadium guard and put a bullet through Graham Cracker’s skull.
“Gee,” gulped Nickname, as the pony, who had lain twitching in agony only inches from home plate, died with a whish of fumes from her exhaust, “I was only tryin’ to win.”
In his grief, Mazuma had to smile. “Well, if Doubloon kicks the bucket, Damur, you’ll see what you won. When the fans get through with you, Nickname, you’ll envy the unenviable Gamesh. My educated guess, kid, is that even if Doubloon survives, you yourself are washed up. To coin an appropriately paradoxical phrase, ‘You’re out of the running, flash-in-the-pan.’”
“At fourteen?” cried the bloodied Mundy.
“Kee-rect,” said Mazuma. “I believe you have just Mundied yourself for life.”
“But how could I? I won!”
“Tell it to them, Nickname,” said Mazuma, lifting his gaze to the mob howling now for Nickname’s unsportsmanlike hide. “Like the feller says,” quipped Mazuma, covering his ears, “where you’re concerned, it’s all over but the shouting.”
Minutes passed before Mazuma could even hope to make himself heard; then he stepped to the microphone, raised one hand, and into the red roaring mouth of the crowd, tossed this tender filet: “Official time, fourteen and four-fifths seconds. The winner—Damur!”
“Murderer! Killer! Monster! Fiend!”—yes, those were the nicknames they were now suggesting for the youth perennially in search of the right monicker for himself.
After the groundskeepers had dragged Graham Cracker’s carcass across the field and out through the Mundy bullpen, and had raked away the last of her poignant hoof prints, Mazuma announced to the crowd that he intended to continue with “Welcome Bud Parusha Day” ceremonies as planned. And when, in a breaking voice, he said, “I can’t help but think that Doubloon would want it that way,” the fans once again came to their feet to deliver a standing ovation.
To the surprise and delight of everyone, the next person to be introduced was a stout, gray-haired woman in a longish print dress and sturdy shoes who was helped up out of the Reaper dugout and escorted to the microphone by a small army of Boy Scouts. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mazuma, pecking her once on the cheek, “this little lady happens to be—my mom! And with her, Troop 40 of Mazuma Avenue School!”
The Boy Scouts came instantly to attention and saluted—some saluted Mother Mazuma, others Frank Mazuma, still others the American flag in center field, and a few simply saluted each other. Mrs. Mazuma waved shyly at the crowd with her handbag. “Today,” she said into the mike, but so softly the fans had to lean forward in thei
r seats to hear … Today, came the even gentler echo … “I consider myself—” I consider myself … “the happiest mother—” the happiest mother … “on the face of the earth—” of the earth …
Yet another standing ovation.
“Now, fans,” said Mazuma, “as you all know, there is a custom in baseball, old as the great game itself, for the team at bat to attempt to rile up the team on the field by that benign form of badinage known as bench-jockeying. And as you also know if you’ve been out to the park this year to see our erstwhile visitors at play, there is probably no player in the entire league who the bench-jockeys can rile up quicker and easier than the man I am about to introduce. All you have to shout from the bench is ‘Hothead, bet you a bottle of suds you couldn’t throw out my own mother!’ and then watch that Mundy fume. Folks, let’s give a big welcome to Bud Parusha’s former teammate and fellow defective, Ruppert Mundy catcher, Hothead Ptah!”
Wearing but one shin guard—“Only got but one shin!” Hot would snarl at the wiseguys—and his chest protector, and carrying his mask and his glove, Hot came racing out of the Mundy dugout at what for him was top speed. Oh, was he eager!
“Well,” said Mazuma when the laughter died down, “here she is, Hot—my mom!”
“Howdy!”
“Good day, Mr. Ptah.”
“Well, Hot,” said Mazuma, “think you can throw her out at second, two out of three? Personally, I have to say I got my doubts, knowin’ Mom here and her speed.”
The crowd went wild as Hothead proceeded instantly to lose his temper. “You’ll eat those words, Mazuma!”
“And—and,” said Mazuma, having to wait now for his own laughter to subside (“His daughter’s in the hospital, surgery is being performed on her spinal column at this very moment, and he can still laugh! What a guy!” said the Reaper sportscaster to the hundreds of thousands tuned to KALE), “to assist Hothead in his attempt to cut down my mother stealing two times out of three, here is the proud owner of the sorest arm in baseball, Mundy relief ace—”