Bang The Drum Slowly

by Mark Harris

  “It is never too late for an annuity,” said I.

  “No, no, it is much too late. I am too old.”

  “With 7 or 8,000 in Series money,” said I, “I can fix you up with a plan as a starter. 7 or 8,000 will take up a lot of back slack.”

  ”I was thinking of asking you,” he said, “only a fellow hates to ask a punk of 23 for tips on things.”

  “What do you own?” I said.

  “Own? You know what I own? I own a couple catcher’s mitts and a baseball signed by each and every member of the 1944 Mammoths and a medal pinned on me by General Douglas McCarthy. Put them all together and you can get $5 in any hockshop in Chicago. What I own is debts.”

  “We will declare bankruptcy,” I said.

  “How?” he said.

  “I will show you,” I said. “But you must do me one favor. You must lay off Pearson.”

  “A man has got to have a little fun,” he said.

  “He is dying,” I said.

  The balls dropped out of his hand and he bent down and picked them up and then dropped them again and left them roll. “You mean dying? You mean where he is libel to blank out for good and ever? You mean soon? You mean any day?”

  “They give him 6 months to 15 years,” I said.

  “Does Dutch know?”

  “No,” said I. “You must not tell him. You must not tell anybody, for Dutch would cut him loose in a minute.”

  “I can not believe it,” he said.

  “Only me and you know,” I said.

  “Only us will ever know,” he said, and we shook hands, which must of looked peculiar out there, 2 fellows shaking hands. “We better start warming,” he said.

  I was blinding fast all day. In the beginning I could not think, and I was wobbly. “You fool I” said I to myself. “You fool, with your foot in your mouth for a change.” I was sure I done wrong, and I wished I could take it back. I felt like going down the line and telling Goose it was only a gag. But it passed, and I become lost, thinking only of the hitter.

  Goose was steady. The first couple innings I kept getting behind my hitter, and he kept pulling me out. He sung a little, singing, “No bopay ho, no bopay ho,” meaning “No ballplayer here, no ballplayer here,” until his wind give out along around the seventh. I could see how he was once a top-flight catcher, for he handles you nice, second fiddle all his life to Red Traphagen, but top-flight all the same, doing most of your worrying for you. He kept flashing 2 signs, and I flashed back the one I liked best, and he sung, “Lefflie, lefflie,” “Leave her fly, leave her fly,” playing mostly by memory now, no legs, no arm, but steady, and I give up only one hit in 8 innings.

  It was 0–0 in the top of the ninth when a pinch-hitter name of Macklin slapped a single off me and was sacrificed along by Aleck Olson. Macklin was the first runner that reached second off me all afternoon. I was getting set to face Kussuth with 2 down and Macklin still on second when Dutch signed for the pick-off. What it is is the pitcher and the second baseman go into a count, counting “One cigarette, 2 cigarette, 3 cigarette, 4 cigarette, 5 cigarette,” and after cigarette 5 the second baseman cuts for second and the pitcher whirls and throws. You must count exactly the same speed, the 2 of you, you and the second baseman. Many a time Dutch will say in the clubhouse, “Count by cigarette,” and the pitchers and Perry and Tyler and Wash Washburn all stand and count together in their head, “One cigarette, 2 cigarette, 3 cigarette, 4 cigarette, 5 cigarette,” and then all whirl and throw while Perry and Tyler and Wash all cut, all winding up their count on the same exact breath, and I signed, “OK, I got it,” adjusting my cap with the glove hand, and Perry signed that he also had it, singing “This hitter is much of a phonus bolonus. This hitter is much of a phonus bolonus,” Coker signing, Canada leaning in, ready to break and back in case the throw went wild, and on the second “bolonus” we begun counting, Coker drifting off towards third, Perry off down towards first, making Macklin feel comfortable with a big lead, me toeing in and counting, Perry counting, “One cigarette, 2 cigarette, 3 cigarette, 4 cigarette, 5 cigarette,” and then I whirled and threw, and Perry broke and dove across the bag and took the throw, and Macklin roared back in but seen he could not make it, and dug, backing and turning and heading for third, Perry up off his belly and running him down the line a little and firing to George, Macklin spinning again and George starting down the line after him, me backing George, and George fired to Coker, and Coker to me, Macklin reversing and reversing and reversing again, back and forth, me firing to Perry then, and Perry shouting “I got him,” and starting after Macklin and catching him halfway and putting the tag on the son of a bitch.

  Sid led off our ninth, and it looked like extra innings. There was a new Boston pitcher name of Debelak, and he took his final throws and said he was ready, and Sid stepped in and fixed his feet and wiped his hands and set his cap and finally looked down at the plate and told the ump dust it off. The fans were not shouting “Here! Here!” any more, and not waving Number 16 in the air neither. They were bushed. A ballplayer must never be bushed playing ball all year but a fan is in title to be bushed sitting on their ass keeping score. It is a cockeyed world. He stepped back in and got set all over again, his feet, his hands, his cap. Then he stepped out again and took a fresh chew of gum from his pocket and unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth and put the old piece in the wrapper and wrapped it up and told the batboy come get it. Sid can’t stand pieces of paper on the ground. Then he stepped back in again and fixed his feet and wiped his hands and set his cap, and Debelak threw, and Sid swung, and it rode on a line, like on a string, clearing the wall in right and probably punched a hole in somebody’s Number 16.

  That was Number 7 for me. I lost only 3 by then. I led both leagues in E. R. A. and was about tied with Rob McKenna in strikeouts. I smelled 20 and maybe even 25. My weight was down to 205½. I was still working every fourth day and feeling awful good.

  Katie took us to dinner that night at a place called The Green Cow, $8 a plate, food extra. She looked at Holly’s belly and said, “I trust it ain’t catching,” and the management tried to throw me out because I had no tie. Katie said, “Throw him out and you throw out me and all my trade with me,” and the management said “Begging your pardon” in French. Bruce said he doubted that there was any such a thing as a green cow, and Katie said, “There must not be if my little old future husband says so.” She called him her little old future husband about every 15 minutes, and they held hands when they walked. I would of puked if it been any less expensive. She dropped $56 down The Green Cow plus tips, and we went up to her place afterwards, the first time me and Holly been back to 66 Street in 2 years.

  They all drunk a lot of wine except me. The telephone kept ringing, and I sat by it, answering it, saying, “Police Commissioner” and “Vice Squad” and “Dragnet! My name is Friday. My partner is Joe Smith. Dum da dum dum. Dum da dum dum” until after awhile it stopped.

  I could see that she knew. But she was never sure if I knew she knew, and I give her nothing to go on, always saying to myself, pitching or anywheres else, “Half the fight is knowing, and the other half is not telling.” She also played it close. There was 50,000 in a bundle, and she was hot after it.

  She was extremely gorgeous, that night or any other. She drives you mad yet never gives you any kind of a come-on, never waggles her parts around like a girl in business might do, never speaks of bed but makes you think of it because you smell her when she comes near, and she touches you without ever touching you. Holly and Bruce got silly with the wine and wound up talking crosswise across Katie, foolish talk, talking about me mostly, each of them going the other one one better every time, telling things about me too wonderful for me to believe, and I talked across them at Katie, not wishing to talk but listen and maybe get a line on her, but then doing most of the talking myself, like I was the one with the wine in my hand. I was hunting like mad for something to trade with in case the time come to talk trade, but I never knew much about
her, then nor ever, where she come from nor why nor how long.

  Me and Holly left around midnight. She kissed Bruce at the door, or tried to, but he drawed back, and Katie looked at us and smiled and said, “After all, what would a man’s little old future wife think?” and they stood in the door holding hands.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE FOLLOWING Thursday night he either had the attack or else only thought he did. I never stopped to worry which it was but flew out of bed and started waking up doctors. “Get back in bed and keep warm,” said I, and finally a doctor answered, a fellow name of Charleston P. Chambers, M. D., and I give him our room and told him get over in a hurry.

  “Wait now,” said he. “Just what is the trouble?” and I told him, and he told me tell him get back in bed and keep warm, which I already knew from the sheet the doctors give me in Minnesota, and the doctor yawned a couple times and said he would be right over as soon as he was shaved and dressed and located his chauffeur, and he begun telling me he had this loony chauffeur that had a wife in 2 different places, one on the east side and one on the west, and he was never sure which wife he might be at.

  “Never mind your chauffeur,” I said. “I will have a fellow meet you in a cab,” and I wrapped a towel around me and flew down the hall and pounded on Goose’s door, and Horse opened it and said, “Come on in, Author,” and I shoved past him and shook Goose awake and said, “I need help.”

  “What for?” he said.

  “You know,” said I.

  “Oh,” he said, and he was out of bed and in his pants in 15 seconds. “What do I do?” he said. “You can talk. Horse knows, for I told him.”

  “I thought you promised you would never tell a soul in the world,” I said.

  “Only my roomie,” he said.

  I give him the doctor’s address and went back to Bruce. He looked OK, only breathing a little hard was all, and cold, and I piled blankets on him and stuck a hot water bottle in bed and sat down beside him. The sky was just beginning to light up a little, the quiet time when all the air is clean and you can hear birds, even in the middle of New York City, the time of day you never see except by accident, and you always tell yourself, “I must get up and appreciate this time of day once in awhile,” and then you never do. Don’t ask me why. “I am sorry to of woke you,” he said.

  “Make it back to me some other time,” I said.

  “I do not think there will be another time,” he said. “Tomorrow is my birthday. I suppose my mother put a package in the mail. You can keep it when it comes, or cash it in if it is something you do not need. Give Katie a call.”

  “Lay still and save your energy,” I said.

  “I wish Katie was here,” he said. “Probably Dutch will bring Piney Woods up. He is from Georgia, and that is something, ain’t it? You know, I will bet I am the first ballplayer ever died at the top of the Sunday averages.” He was 12 for 7, 583. “Tell Sid I hope he beats Babe Ruth.”

  “All these things you will take care of yourself,” said I, “if you will only lay still and save your energy.”

  “Is the doctor coming?”

  “Yes,” said I. “Goose went after him.”

  “Why Goose?” said he.

  “Why not?” said I. “He was the first person I thought of. He has a heart of gold underneath.”

  “It just never really showed before,” he said.

  “People are pretty damn OK when they feel like it,” I said.

  “Probably you told him or something,” he said.

  “I never told a soul,” said I.

  “Probably everybody be nice to you if they knew you were dying,” he said.

  “Everybody knows everybody is dying,” I said. “That is why people are nice. You all die soon enough, so why not be nice to each other?”

  “Hold on to me,” he said, and I took his shoulder and held it, and he reached up and took my hand, and I left him have it, though it felt crazy holding another man’s hand. Yet after awhile it did not feel too crazy any more.

  Soon the doctor walked in, all shaved and dressed, which really made me quite annoyed that he took so much time, and Goose and Horse with him. “Who is the sick ballplayer?” he said. “You do not look sick. Open your mouth.” He whipped out a thermometer and stuck it in, and he took his pulse, looking up at Horse and saying, “Who are you?”

  “Horse Byrd,” said Horse.

  “How did you ever get such a name?” said the doctor.

  “I am a little large,” said Horse.

  “I would of never noticed,” said the doctor, and he read the thermometer and shook it down, and he read the “Instructions for the physician” and went back and examined Bruce some more and asked him questions, and when he was done he sat down on the other bed and thought awhile. “I think it is something else,” he said.

  “You mean something else besides what they said in Minnesota?” I said. My heart jumped up.

  “I could not say about that,” he said. “I only mean I can see no danger as of this minute.”

  “It sure felt like it,” said Bruce.

  The doctor got up and walked back and forth, now and then stopping and looking at Bruce and asking one more question, then walking again. Finally he begun packing away his gear. “Boys,” said he, “pardon me for asking a stupid question. But I actually thought Babe Ruth died some while ago.”

  “He actually did,” I said.

  “Yet I keep seeing Babe Ruth down there in the corner of the page every morning, plus this other boy.”

  “Goldman,” I said.

  “Which club is Goldman with?”

  “Ours,” I said.

  “Pardon me for asking one more stupid question,” he said. “No doubt I am no better than an Australian or somebody for not knowing a thing like this, but what club are you with?”

  I told him. “Now you can do me one favor,” I said. “You can send the bill @ me in Perkinsville, New York, and also not leak anything to the paper.”

  “I am not in the habit of leaking my house calls to the paper,” he said. “Tell Goldman I hope he strikes out Babe Ruth.”

  I lost to Chicago that night, though they are usually the softest touch in the world for me. But I never got back to sleep until noon, and when I did it was one of these hot, sweaty sleeps. Goose was tired, too. He been catching all week, Dutch benching Jonah and hoping Goose would power up the lower end of the order. He done so, too. We won 4 in a row between the game I won Memorial Day and the game I lost Friday night to Chicago which I would of never lost if I had any sleep under my belt. Dutch said he believed he would now rotate me every 5 days instead of every 4, which he done, rotating Van Gundy every 6 instead of 5, starting Lindon Burke and Blondie Biggs fairly regular now, and spot-pitching Piss against right-hand clubs if his hay fever wasn’t acting up too bad. Around this time of year you wake up one morning short pitchers. In the beginning you look around you, and you say, “We are certainly loaded with pitching,” and then all of a sudden doubleheaders start piling up and people give out or get hurt or just simply don’t show quite the stuff they had in May.

  We dropped back to the 1½ cushion over Washington, though we picked it up again Saturday, a real slaughter, beating Chicago 13–3, the most runs we scored all year so far. Sid hit 2 and was now 2 up on Babe Ruth, and Pasquale and Vincent and Canada and Goose hit one apiece.

  The paper now took some notice of Goose. He wrote an article called “How I Hit the Comeback Trail at 35” which a writer name of Hubert W. Nash wrote and sold and give him $250 for and the magazine said it would print when his birthday rolled around in August, but it never did. I mean the magazine never printed it. I took 200 of the 250 and applied it against premiums and with 40 more he bought his wife a dress, saving out 10 for taxes which I told him to or else have the United States Bureau of Internal Revenue kicking down his door all winter. I did not like him hanging with the writers, for they will pump things out of you. He said he never said a word about it, and never would.


  Saturday night after dinner there come a knock on the door, and in walks Goose and Horse with a birthday cake and 4 quarts of ice cream. I said to myself, “Buddy, now you seen everything.” “Happy birthday,” they said, and they laid the cake on the dresser and tore open the ice cream. There were 2 candles on the cake, one for the years and one to grow on. “Many happy returns of the day to you, Bruce old pal,” they said, and we said, “Same to you, boys,” and we dug in. They also brung a carton of Days O Work, and Bruce said “Thanks” and picked out a chew and passed the box around, though nobody else took. “There looks like enough there to last you 15 or 20 years,” said Goose.

  “Do not lay it on too thick, boys,” said I to myself, and I am glad to say they did not. They polished off the cake and cream and got up and took off.

  Goose busted up both ends of the doubleheader Sunday with 2 doubles in the first game and a single with the bases loaded in the second, pinch-hitting for Jonah, which give us 3 out of 4 over Chicago, 7 wins in the last 8 starts.

  * * *

  Monday morning Bruce said to me, “You forgot to write away to Arcturus,” and I snapped my finger and said, “So I did. As soon as I get back from drill I will.” It was an open day, but Dutch calls drills on open days if things are going good, believing in keeping in stride. He also calls them when things are going poorly, believing that a drill on an open day will break your stride. I guess he knows because it works, or else he just misses being away from the park. Whatever it was we drilled, and all the way up and all the way back and all the while getting dressed Bruce said to me, “Do not forget and write that letter,” and I told him I would if he ever stopped asking.