by Philip Roth
LATE ONE NIGHT, not very long after his visit to Mrs. Trust, Roland Agni once again stole out of his hotel room after Jolly Cholly’s bed check and made his way through the unfamiliar streets of Tri-City, this time toward the harbor instead of the business district. The Tycoons were at home fattening themselves on the visiting Mundys, the Greenbacks were on the road; nonetheless, a light was shining in a window above the scoreboard in right field, exactly as it had on each of the two previous excursions that Agni had secretly made to Greenback Stadium. As yet, however, he had not found the courage to ring the bell in the recessed doorway on the street side of the right-field wall. But was “courage” the word? Wasn’t it more like “treachery”?
If you make a deal, Roland, Mrs. Trust had told him, you’ll have to make it with the enemies of America, as an enemy of America …
“Vat is dis? Who is dis?” came a voice from a window some twenty-five feet above his head. For he (or the traitor in him) had rung the bell at last!
“Vat kind of joke is dis! Vat’s gung on down dere!”
“I—I thought there was a night game … sorry…”
“At 2 A.M.?” cried Ellis. “Get outta here, viseguy, de Greenbacks is on de road!”
“I—I have to see the owner.”
“Write de complaint department, dummy!”
But as the Jew’s head withdrew, the miserable Mundy star cried out, “It’s—it’s Roland Agni, Mr. Ellis!”
“It’s who?”
“Me! Roland! The leading hitter in the league!”
Agni was led up a steep circular stairway through the interior of the scoreboard, as terrified as if he were climbing the spinal column of a prehistoric monster. A single bulb burned at the very top, no larger than you would imagine a monster’s brain to be, and with about as much intensity. Black squares of wood were fitted into the thirty or forty apertures that faced out onto the field, as though the mouths, ears, and nostrils, as well as all the eyes, had lids to pull shut when the great beast wasn’t out breathing fire.… In all, mounting the dim hollow interior of the scoreboard produced the most eerie sensation in Roland—or maybe it was just walking behind a Jew. He did not believe he had ever even seen one up close before, though of course he’d heard the stories.
* * *
Mrs. Ellis immediately put up some hot water for tea. “A .370 hitter,” she said, pulling a housecoat over her nightgown, “and he goes out in the middle of the night without a jacket!”
“I wasn’t thinkin’, ma’m. I wanted a little air, ya’ see, and got lost…”
She put her hand to his forehead. “This I don’t like,” she told her husband, and left the room, returning in a moment with a thermometer. “Please,” she said to Agni, who at first refused to rise from his chair, “you wouldn’t be the first big leaguer what I seen with his pants down.”
So, scaling new heights of humiliation in his desperate attempt to shed the scarlet-and-gray, Roland did as he was told.
While Mrs. Ellis sat beside him, waiting for his fever to register, the Jew owner returned to the ledgers which lay open beneath the lamp on his desk. “You know vat I clear in a veek?” he asked the Mundy star. “Last veek, know vat I cleared in cash, after salaries, after rent and repairs, after new balls and new resin bags? Take a guess.”
“A thousand?” said Agni.
“Who you talkin’ to, Mrs. Trust from de Tycoons, or me? Guess again.”
“Shucks, I can’t, Mr. Ellis, with this here thing stickin’ in me…”
“Sha,” whispered Mrs. Ellis, checking the second hand on her watch.
“Guess again, Roland!” said Ellis.
“A hundred a week?”
“Come again!”
“Ninety? Eighty? Look, how do I know—I got my own troubles, Mr. Ellis!”
With the enemies, as an enemy …
“Tventy-t’ree dollars a veek!” cried Mr. Ellis. “Less den de ushers! Less den de groundkipper! Less den de hooligan vat sells de beer! And I’m de owner!”
Mrs. Ellis extracted the thermometer. “Well,” she said, “I’ll tell you the name of one .370 hitter who ain’t running around Tri-City no more tonight! The league’s leading hitter and he’s out looking for pneumonia!”
“It’s … it’s bein’ a Mundy, Mrs. Ellis…” whispered Agni.
“It’s what?”
“Nothin’,” he said, but instead of getting up and getting the hell out, he allowed himself (or the traitor in him) to be bundled into a pair of Mr. Ellis’s pajamas and buried beneath three blankets on the sofa.
It wasn’t making a deal with the enemy, was it, to stay overnight?
In the morning his temperature was normal, but Mrs. Ellis would not hear of his returning to his hotel without breakfast. “Please, you’re not playing against the Tycoons on an empty stomach.” And he had to agree that that made no sense.
“Tell me somet’ink,” grumbled Ellis from across the breakfast table, “vy do vee haf all dese pitchers? Can somebody give me vun good reason?”
“Abe,” said his wife, from the stove, “enough with the pitchers.”
“God forbid dey should lift a finger around here between assignments! To get dem to pinch-run even, you got to get down on your knees and beg! Years ago, a pitcher who vas a pitcher would t’row bot’ ends of a doubleheader! Ven I fois’ came to dis country, belief me, you didn’t haf eight pitchers sittin’ dere on dere behinds for every vun vat vas on de mound! You had two, t’ree iron men, and dat vas it! Today, nine pitchers! No vunder I’m goink to de poor house! And you—” he cried, as into the room came his worst enemy of all, “Mr. Argument! Mr. Ideas! Mr. Sabotage-his-own-fad’er!”
“You sabotage yourself,” mumbled Isaac, and stuffed a sugar bun into his mouth.
“Isaac,” said Mrs. Ellis, “see who’s here? Roland Agni! The league’s leading hitter!”
“Bat him first,” said Isaac, “instead of eighth, and he’d be leading the league in runs scored, too.”
“I would?” said Agni. “I thought fourth.”
“First!” shouted Isaac. “Players should bat in the descending order of run-productiveness! Dy = rp × 1275. But try to explain that to the morons who manage this game!”
“Mr. Know-it-all!”
“They don’t see eye-to-eye,” explained the kindly Mrs. Ellis.
“Neither does me and my dad,” Agni said.
“Vell, listen to him den!” snapped Ellis. “Maybe you’ll loin somet’ink!”
“I did,” whined Agni, “that’s how come everythin’ that’s wrong with me is wrong. On account of my father! Oh, Mr. Ellis,” cried Agni, “I—I—I—”
As an enemy, with the enemies, Roland.
“I—I want—I want—”
“What is it?” cried Mrs. Ellis, clutching her heart at the sight of the young hero suddenly in tears.
“I—I want to be a Greenback! To play for you! Oh, buy me, Mr. Ellis—and I’ll play for nothin’! But I just can’t be a Mundy no more!”
Stunned, Ellis said, “For nuttink?”
“Yes! Yes! I play for my allowance of two-fifty a week as it is! Oh, buy me, please! I’ll bring in fans by the tens of thousands! I’ll be the greatest Greenback since Gil Gamesh!”
“A star like you—you vud play for a Jewish pois’n?”
“Mr. Ellis, I don’t care if you was the worst Jew in the world—I’ll do anything! I’ll eat scraps! I’ll sleep on the clubhouse floor!””
“Not in my stadium,” said Mrs. Ellis.
“Sarah,” said Ellis, “get me de Mundy front office. Ve’re makink a deal!”
Isaac Ellis stood by, sneering, while his mother called long distance to Port Ruppert. “Hello?” she said. “This is the Ruppert Mundys?… You sure?” Shrugging she handed the phone to her husband.
“Vat?” he asked her.
“To me,” she said, “sounds like the shvartze.”
“Abe Ellis talkink here.”
“What you want, Abe Ellis dere?”
“Day ain’ here. Day in South America. What you want?”
“Who is dis talking to me like dis?” demanded Ellis.
“Dis here George. Now what you want befo’ I hang up?”
“I vant to talk to de Mundy brut’ers about a trade, if dat’s all right vit’ you!”
“Who all you wanna trade?”
“Listen, who is dis, may I ask, de colored janitor or somebody?”
“Das right. Dis here is George Washington, de colored janitor. Who all you wanna trade? Don’ tell me no dwarf now, ’cause I jus’ bought me a li’l dwarf.”
“You bought?”
“Das right.”
“And since ven you got de right to buy and sell in de Patriot Leek?”
“Since when do you, Jew?” and the Ruppert front office hung up.
“A shvartze janitor,” said Ellis, “runnink a big leek team!”
“A what?” asked Agni.
“A colored pois’n!” cried Ellis. “George Vashington no less! He sveeps de floor—and he makes de trades!”
“Then that’s him,” said Agni, “who traded Buddy to Kakoola—just like the fellers said!”
“I dun’ belief it! Sarah,” said Ellis, “call again—and call right!”
“This the Mundys?” she asked, after dialing long distance and waiting to be connected. “Yes?” She handed the phone to her husband. “It’s him.”
“Hello?” said Ellis, “Ruppert Mundys?”
“Das right.”
“Look—I vant to buy from you a center-fielder.”
“Well, ain’ dat somethin’. De Jew, he wanna buy de bess playuh we done got! And how much you wanna pay, Jew?”
“Vatch de vay you talk to me, sonny boy!”
“How much you wanna pay, Jew? Dis here de league leadin’ batter we’s talkin’ about Dis here a nineteen-year-ol’ boy, strong as de ox, quick as de rabbit, smart as de owl, and hungry as de wolf!”
“How much you vant?”
“Oh, jus about as much as you ready to part wid, Jew—and den some!”
“Vell, frankly I vas t’inkink more alonk de line of a svop—svoppink players.”
“Oh, I betch you wuz,” chuckled George. “Only we don’ need no mo’ players.”
“De Mundys dun’ need players?”
“We juss fine in de player department. We wan’ yo’ money.”
“Listen, vat is dis! Vat’s goink on! Who gave you de right—I demand to know!”
“Same one gave you,” and the phone went dead.
“Can’t be!” cried the Greenback owner. “Dis is somebody tryink to drive me crazy! It couldn’t be a real shvartze—no, it can’t be true!”
Sneering, Isaac said, “Why not, Dad? It’s the land of opportunity, Dad.”
“For everybody,” thought Agni, bursting into tears again, “but me! And I’m the All-American star! It ain’t fair! It don’t make sense no more! I’m the greatest rookie of all time! I’m another Cobb! I’m another Ruth! I’m everybody great rolled up into one—and a Jew and a nigger is bargainin’ for my hide!”
This time Ellis himself did the phoning. “You sure,” he asked the operator, “dis is de big leek team? You sure dis ain’t a practical joke?”
“This is not A Practical Joke, sir,” the operator informed him. “If you want A Practical Joke you will have to get that number from information. I have the Ruppert Mundy Baseball Organization of the Patriot League on the wire. Go ahead, please.”
“Hello—Mundys? Ruppert Mundys?”
“De same.”
“Dis is de shvartze again?”
“De same.”
“How much for Roland Agni?”
“A cool qwata of a million.”
“Dollars?”
“De same, Jew.”
* * *
Agni descended through the dim interior of the right-field scoreboard; halfway down he walked out along a gangway to lift one of the boards and peer through the aperture at the playing field that might have been his home, if only he wasn’t so great and didn’t cost so much to buy … Far below, the pasture beckoned. He saw the headlines.
AGNI LEAPS FROM SCOREBOARD
Rookie Slugger Suicide; Jews, Niggers, Commies, Cripples, Dwarfs, and Other Freaks Held Responsible; Landis Orders Disreputable Elements Barred from Game Forever; “Clean-up long overdue,” says Mrs. Trust; “Could have been greatest of all time,” Managers agree; Mundy Brothers Jailed; Mazuma Gets Death Penalty; Agni’s Father Weeps at Funeral: “I was only trying to teach him humility”—Stoned by Grief-Stricken Fans; “This day shall live in infamy,” says F.D.R.; Nation-wide Mourning Ordered; Pathetically Broken Beautiful Body To Be Cremated in Ceremony at Hall of Fame; Ashes To Be Scattered from Air Force Bomber on Fans at Opening Game of World Series; Number To Be Retired; Shoes To Be Bronzed; Bat and Glove To Be Taken on Round-the-World Tour of G.I.s by Bob Hope; Name To Live Forever; “Lesson to Mankind,” says Pope; Fred Waring’s “Ballad of Roland Agni” Number One on Hit Parade; Big Four To Meet
It almost seemed worth it …
Except, thought Agni, that’s not what would happen at all—not with my luck! No, even if he leaped to his death in a perfect swan dive, he would get no more than a few grudging lines on page seventy-two, he was sure …
MUNDY DEAD IN FALL, AS IF ANYONE CARES
Tri-City, Sept. 16—One of the Ruppert Mundys, the joke team of organized baseball, in a typical stupid Mundy stunt, fell out of the scoreboard at Greenback Stadium and died. God only knows what he was doing there. His name was Nagi or something like that and he was said to be their best player. The Mundys’ best player. Terrific.
“No luck, Agni?”
“What!”
“It’s me.”
“Who? It’s so dark!”
“Down here. Isaac Ellis. The ungrateful son.”
“Oh…”
“Down here. Keep coming, Roland, keep coming.”
“What—what is all this?”
“My laboratory.”
“Where am I?”
“Under the stadium. You missed the door to the street.”
“What—what are you doing?”
“Oh, this? Splitting the atom.”
“What—what’s that mean?”
“Just something to pass the time, Roland, until I get to manage the Greenbacks the way they ought to be managed.”
“But you’re only seventeen.”
“And a Jew and a genius, I know.”
“Boy, you must be lonely to sit down here like this, do in’ that. Well, I better be going, you know. How do I get out a’ here?”
“Not so fast. Sit down. I wanted to talk to you, Roland.”
“But I got to be at Tycoon Park—I gotta game to play.”
“Don’t be frightened, Roland. I only want to talk, that’s all. You’re a great baseball player, Roland. They don’t make them like you anymore.”
“I know they don’t. They never did, like me. I’ve got practically everything you could want.”
“Roland, I’d like to manage you some day. Your body, my brains—there’d be nothing like it in the history of the game.”
“But I’m a Mundy, in case you ain’t heard.”
“I could buy you from the Mundys, don’t worry about that.”
“Oh yeah! And where you goin’ to get two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from?”
“A seventeen-year-old Jewish genius can always lay his hands on a few bucks, Rollie.”
“Oh sure.”
“My friend, I could make that quarter of a million just between now and the end of the season by betting on the Mundys to win all their remaining games.”
“You could, huh? And how they gonna do that? A miracle from God?”
“See this that I am holding in my hand? You can read by the light of my Bunsen burner.”
“It’s just a box of Wheaties.”
“Wheaties, the Bre
akfast of Champions.”
“Well, that’s pure baloney, that champion stuff. We get ’em free, by the case. And look at all the good they done us.”
“You get your Wheaties from the General Mills Company in Minneapolis, Minnesota. That is why they don’t do what they’re advertised to do. These Wheaties are manufactured by a seventeen-year-old Jewish genius.”
“But—it’s the same box, ain’t it?”
“The same box. The same flavor. The same in every visible way. Only one invisible difference.”
“What?”
“They do the job. If the Ruppert Mundys were to eat these Wheaties made by me in Tri-City, if only a few little flakes were to be sprinkled on top of those Wheaties they already eat made by the Wheaties company in Minneapolis, your team would be unbeatable.”
“Oh yeah? And what makes them so special again?”
“Let’s call it extra energy.”
“That’s what they all say. Vitamin X, Y, and Z. It’s all words.”
“Roland, if only you will slip these Wheaties into their breakfast in the morning, there will be no holding down the Mundys on the field.”
“I suppose they’re going to wake up old Wayne Heket while they’re at it, too.”
“They’ll do more than just wake him up, I can assure you of that.”
“Oh sure, sure.”
“Stupid goy, I am splitting the atom! I am fifty years ahead of my time in nuclear physics alone! The Wheaties I could do with a frontal lobotomy! I am telling you the scientific facts—the Mundys will eat my Wheaties, and they will win all of their remaining games! And by betting on them I will win a quarter of a million dollars—and buy you for my father’s team—and become the Greenback manager, at long last! And either my old man says yes, or he winds up on the street, begging with a cup!”