Bang The Drum Slowly

by Mark Harris

  “What were you doing in Chicago?”

  ”Besides calling Joe I was only changing planes,” said I.

  “For where?”

  “For Minnesota.”

  “Where in Minnesota?”

  “Minneapolis.”

  “What was up?”

  “Insurance matters,” I said.

  “Name me somebody you planned seeing on insurance matters in Minneapolis.”

  “Aleck Olson,” said I.

  Dutch dug the Boston book out of his bag and looked up Aleck and threw the book on the bed. “Did you sell him?”

  “I believe it is only a matter of time,” I said.

  “This is all a lie,” he said.

  “No, it is no lie,” I said.

  “I got a feeling that these little statements are true,” he said, “but what they add up to is one big lie. Am I right?”

  “About what?”

  “About the feeling I got?” he said.

  “I do not know what kind of a feeling you got,” said I. “If you say you have got such a feeling I guess you do.”

  He laughed. “Get out,” he said. “I sure wish you could be wrapped in a sack and tossed in the river, all except your left arm.”

  The first thing I done at the park Tuesday was race over to the Boston clubhouse. The boys were all sitting around eating bananas. “Where did you get all the bananas?” I said.

  “Off a tree,” they said, and somebody threw me one.

  “What in hell you doing in here?” said Alf Keller. “Get the hell out.”

  ”I just come over to use your scale,” I said. “What kind of a cheap management is it that got no scale in the visiting clubhouse?”

  “What you need is a truck scale,” said Alf.

  “What you need is a ball club,” said I. I stepped on the scale. “Alf, I know where you can pick up a couple girls off a softball club cheap.” The scale said “211½” and I threw my banana away.

  “What you need I already got,” said he.

  “Aleck,” said I, “could I see you a minute?” and we stepped out in the alley, and before I said anything he said, “Dutch called me.”

  “What did he say?” I said.

  “He asked me what you done in Minneapolis. I told him you bought a coat was all I remembered. He asked me if I bought insurance off you, and I said no, not yet. I think I will buy some.”

  “Never mind that now,” I said. “What else did he say?”

  “What is up, Author?” said Aleck. “I told him nothing if I could help it. If I knew what was up I could tell him the right thing. He asked me where you went. I said you got on the bus to see Pearson.”

  “Did you tell him where I was going to see Pearson?”

  “I do not remember. I figured if you got on the Rochester bus you were going to Rochester.”

  “Ain’t there places between Minneapolis and Rochester you might be going to see a man at?”

  “Only Cannon Falls,” he said.

  “It happens that was where I seen Pearson,” I said.

  “OK, OK,” he said. “Do not be mad at me. Only what in hell would anybody be seeing anybody in Cannon Falls for?”

  “You might be going fishing,” I said.

  “In what?” he said. “In 9 feet of ice?”

  “Hunting?”

  “Yes,” he said, “you might be going hunting at that, though you would be more libel to go up north hunting. That is where everybody goes. Have you boys got a girl in Minnesota?”

  “That is just where I would not wish to go,” I said, “where everybody else is, all packed in like sardines.”

  “Packed in in all them woods! You might go days without seeing a soul. Many a man froze to death up there before they found him.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “For what?” he said. “Listen, Author, I wish to talk to you about the annuity.”

  “Some other time,” I said, and I went out and warmed.

  It was the fourth straight Opener I worked. Sam Yale worked 14 in a row until I nudged him out of the spot in 52. I do not know why Dutch always likes left-handers against Boston, but he does. They used to be weak against left-handers, but not any more. Now they are weak, but not especially against left-handers, and if I been Dutch I would of saved me and Van Gundy more for somebody else and threw right-hand pitching at Boston. However, I am not Dutch.

  The first ball I pitched Aleck Olson lined it in the seats in right, a solid blow though not a long one, and I said to myself, “This is a great way to start the year.” Keith Crane got up off the bench and slung his jacket over his shoulder and started down to the bullpen, Bruce following along behind. Dutch stood up and took a bat out of the rack and begun tapping the handle on the step, like a drum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-dum-dum-dum, like the Lone Ranger’s horse, Hiyo Silver, away. He breaks about 4 bats like that a year. Jonah come down the line with a new ball, squeezing it so little and white in those big hands, and the infield gathered around and gassed, and then they all went back to their spots except Jonah. He stood there a minute, rubbing the ball, not saying a word, only giving you the idea that nothing in the world happened worth talking about, then turning and hustling back up the line again. He never lets his worry show. He is steady, and he makes you steady. “Jonah knows,” he says, and if you doubt him he knows that, too, reads your mind, and he sings, “Do not doubt Jonah. Last man that doubted Jonah wound up in the poorhouse,” and you throw and do not doubt. He is the most under-rated man in baseball today, as me and the Mammoths know, and nobody else, and we got the son of a bitches out after that, 1-2-3.

  Keith and Bruce put their jacket on again, for it was cold up there, and sat down in the bullpen. Dutch put the bat back in the rack. And Sid tied it up a minute later with a blow that sailed twice as far back in the stands as Aleck’s ever done, and the ball game was new.

  Then soon it was not new any more, neither, but ours, for the power was on, the boys all hitting solid and steady, though a couple times when we really got moving the tail end come up, Jonah first and me after, and this kept queering things, not only then but later in the summer, too. You are not libel to find 2 weaker hitters in a row anywheres. Jonah tries. I will say that. I myself pretty much give up even trying any more. We were ahead 6–2 in the eighth, which you might of still called a ball game until Perry and Pasquale both got on and Sid hit another, and it was 9–2 and everybody in the stands that didn’t already freeze to death went home and probably never come back the rest of the year.

  We won on Wednesday, too, which was colder yet, Van Gundy throwing these soft little hooks and sinkers all day that from anywheres in the park look like a sick child served them up underhand. I seen more articles all summer called WHY CAN NOBODY HIT VAN GUNDY? than any other kind except WILL SID GOLDMAN BE THE MAN TO BUST BABE RUTH’S RECORD? Sid hit another that day, which was 3, and we went back home on the evening train.

  About an hour out a porter name of Marty told me Dutch wished to see me, and I went back to his room again, saying over and over to myself, “Cannon Falls, Cannon Falls.” He was laying on the bed all naked with the sheet up over him, the Brooklyn book beside him, his hands back under his head and a cigarette in his mouth. The ashes kept falling down on his chest. “Ain’t you afraid of burning a hole in your chest?” I said. He never answered, never even looked at me in the beginning, only stared up.

  “I lay here reading the Brooklyn book,” he said. “I keep trying to figure the son of a bitches out. But then do you know who I wind up thinking about? I wind up thinking about Wiggen and Pearson. Goddam it, Author, you told me you went back home from Minneapolis.”

  “So it is this again?” said I. “No sir, Dutch, I do not believe I told you that.”

  “You give me to believe it,” he said. “And that is the same thing. Did you see Olson?”

  “Did I see Olson?” I said. “The son of a bitch hit a home run off me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Su
re I seen Olson.”

  “What about?”

  “Insurance matters. By the way, he mentioned you called him. Dutch, I would rather you did not push this thing too far.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is a personal matter,” said I. I got up and locked the door.

  “Flip up the bowl,” he said, and I flipped it up and he tossed his cigarette in and turned over on his side now. “How so?” he said.

  “Well, Dutch,” said I, “you will probably think I am a heel and all that, but there is this airline stewardess.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Mary,” I said.

  “Mary what? Jones or Smith or Brown?”

  “Mary Pistologlione,” I said.

  “So,” he said. “Go on. I am trying hard to believe this. OK, so you fiddle along between Chicago and Minneapolis, and then you get on the bus in Minneapolis and go where?”

  “Did not Olson tell you?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Down to Cannon Falls,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “To hunt.”

  “You never hunt. What kind of a gun do you shoot?”

  “No kind,” I said. “I only went because Pearson asked me to.”

  ”What did you catch?”

  “Nothing. We changed our mind and went back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Home, him to Georgia and me to Perkinsville.”

  “I am sure you have drilled him up to the eyes,” he said, “but I am going to hear how it sounds from him anyway. You sit right there.” He rung for the porter. “How did he come up to Minnesota? Drive by car did he?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The porter banged on the door. “Tell him go get Pearson,” Dutch said. “I do not believe this cockeyed bull story about your friend Mary for a single minute, but if it is true you are making a mistake. Anybody with a wife like yours must count his blessings.” Bruce walked in, and Dutch laid over on his back again and lit up another cigarette and reached under the bed and stuck the match in the spring. “How much money you owe Author, Pearson?”

  “I owe him nothing,” said Bruce. “Arthur, do I owe you any money?” He looked at me quite hurt.

  “What train did you go up to Minnesota in?” said Dutch.

  “No train sir. In my car.”

  “Is Cannon Falls a nice town?” said Dutch. “Tell me what it is like.”

  “It is pretty nice,” said Bruce, “with a main drag and stores but very cold. We could not fish. The ice was 9 feet. We went hunting.”

  “What did you shoot?” said Dutch.

  “Not so many niggers up there neither.”

  “I asked you what you shot.”

  “Nothing sir. We started hunting and changed my mind. I did not feel like killing anything any more.”

  ”That knocks the hell out of hunting,” said Dutch.

  “Yes sir,” said Bruce. “I guess it does.”

  “Then where did you go from Minnesota?” said Dutch.

  “Back home.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes sir. Were we not, Arthur?”

  “Were who not?” said Dutch, sitting up in bed all of a sudden.

  “Me and Arthur,” said Bruce.

  “You 2 went down from Minnesota by car?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Flip up the bowl again,” said Dutch, and I flipped it up and he tossed the butt in. “Now, Author, I believe we might be heading towards something at last, for 2 nights ago on this same identical train I said to you who drove your car down to Bainbridge, and you said you and your wife did, but now I hear something else again. Did you go down there and back home for your wife? Or did her and Mary Pistologlione maybe drive down together with Aleck Olson? Or in other words what in hell is going on here anyways, because you know as sure as your name that I am going to get to the bottom of this or kill myself doing it,” and while he was talking my mind was whirling, and I let her whirl, and when he stopped I busted out laughing, saying, “Well, Dutch, the whole joke is on you.”

  “I am laughing my ass off,” said he.

  “Because if you will back the whole thing up,” said I, “you will remember that I called you on the telephone during this time and give you a little patter and told you I was up home when where we were we were right downtown in St. Louis. We would of went out and seen you but were not shaved and did not wish to see the Mrs. like that and finally made a gag out of it all. You can understand me not wishing to give away a gag that I might wish to try another time on somebody else.” I was laughing, but Dutch was not.

  “This does not explain everything,” he said. “It leaves me in the dark on a number of counts.” He leaned back and laughed a little, though not hard, and he seen the Brooklyn book and picked it up and begun studying it. After awhile he said, “Get out.”

  When he really thought about it again he knew there was no Mary Pistologlione and never was nor never could be. He always knew it was a phony story, but he never knew just where. The one big thing on my side was he thinks I am out of my mind to start with.

  CHAPTER 8

  SID HIT a home run in the tenth inning Thursday, Number 4, and we beat Brooklyn, and Friday was the last day of Passover and he was out of the lineup again. Dutch give us a lecture before the Friday game, saying we had all the power in the world and could whip along without Sid, but Goose caught, for power, and we lost, and Dutch swore there would be no more Passover clauses in anybody’s contract. “Why in hell does it never rain on Passover?” he said. He was blowing his fume all over the place, the first time yet, and it made the new boys extremely nervous. I told them it happened every other day, 77 times a summer, and they said it must be quite a strain being on top of it all the time. “It wins flags,” said Ugly.

  “Mike Mulrooney wins flags,” said Lawyer Longabucco, “and he hardly ever speaks above a whisper.”

  “You are in the big time now, son,” said Ugly, “and you must get used to getting eat out in a big-time way.”

  “Yet it seems to me,” said Lawyer, “that I have got no business getting eat out because Sid went home for Passover.”

  “Do not always be a lawyer,” said Ugly, which was how Lawyer Longabucco got his name.

  Sid himself probably never heard a word from Dutch on the subject. He was back Saturday when Boston hit town, and Dutch forgets Friday when Saturday comes, new day, new ball game. Yesterday is in the books, dead and buried. He remembers old grudges from years and years, but he forgets yesterday and leaves you start each new day with a fresh slate and anyhow never eats Sid out much because Sid is not the type of a ballplayer eating out does any good to. He must be kept calm and not stirred up. Once in the park he is always after calmness. He will walk away from a discussion. He will never talk to writers nor fans nor even the boys much but only come up out of the alley and stand studying the bats one after the other, though then always grab the same bat, a Tommy Joyce Special. There are about 3 different types of Sid Goldman bats on the market, but I never seen him use one. Then he strolls up and stands by the cage and watches, and then he slowly steps in for his swipes. He takes a year or more to get his feet set. Then he tilts back a little, his knees bent, the bat resting on his shoulder until the pitcher pumps and you are ready to scream, “Christ Almighty, take the bat off your shoulder!” But he never does until the pitch starts through, and then the bat comes off, and eyes and wrists and power does the rest. He has the most amazing eye in baseball today. In Sid’s language there is no such a thing as “Almost” but only “Yes” or “No,” where every pitch must be in there or else he will give it the go-by. A man must pitch to him or lose him, and when he sees what he likes he picks it out, and the wrists come around with the power behind it driving up from his toes the whole length of him. No matter if he only skies out, he skies high, but if he tags it square it is gone, and either way his face shows nothing, calm, never a smile
nor a frown, and off the field the same, no monkey play but only quiet cards or the pinball machine or a magazine in the lobby. When he is hitting he rides the lobby watching the world go by, and when he is not he stays put in his room seeing nobody, only sitting in his shorts and looking in the mirror and wondering why. In New York he lives at home. In Pittsburgh he has a girl and in Chicago a brother or a cousin, and elsewhere he rooms with Lindon Burke. He dragged me and Lindon to a big blowout for some kind of a charitable outfit in Cleveland one night, and the women tore the joint down getting at him. He walked out of it, saying he could not stand it. It took his mind off. When the time come for the big speech the m.c. looked around for Sid, and he was gone, and I give it instead, saying we must all get behind and push, though never knowing what for nor how much they needed nor why nor when. He is a great drawing card and should have a better contract, but he does not think about it, only signs it and shoves it back in the box. He thinks about nothing, only his hitting. He walks in the clubhouse with the paper in his pocket and sits down and opens it and sees who the probable starter for the other club is and throws the paper away and sits and thinks about the probable starter and gets undressed and sits down in his jock again and thinks about it some more. Then he gets dressed and goes to the phone and calls the press-box and says, “Who is this?” and whoever answers Sid says, “I seen in your paper where So-and-so is the probable starter and wish to know is this the latest.” Then he sticks his cap on his head and goes down the alley thinking about it.

  I worked that Saturday with 3 days rest and my weight down to 210½, hooked up with Murtha, the same boy I beat Opening Day, in a ball game I will never soon forget. It was 2–2 moving along into the eighth when Dutch sent Bruce up to hit for me, the wind being right. I did not like being lifted, though what I like and do not like is a small thing to Dutch.

  Bruce got hold of one he liked and slammed it in left, one base. I thought, “Good boy,” and went back in the clubhouse and weighed myself and was down to 208 and went back out and seen Bruce standing on second dusting himself off. George was still at the plate, and I said, “Wild pitch?”