He went into the pattern of warming up, the pattern he had learned and followed for twenty years. The difference now was he could not quite relax. Something burning deep inside, fire in the chest. No pain. But chest a bit tight. Relax, Billy, relax.
Up came Maxwell. He was anxious and sweating, and kept both hands in his rear pockets, hunched over. He watched Chapel and the Yankees and the crowd in the seats, looked back over the dugout and saw the faces of the two owners and waved, and Chapel recognized that special nod and looked: the young men, sons of the Old Man. The ones who had traded him. Their seats were, naturally, just above the Hawks dugout. Chapel paused for one moment. Both waved at him. Smiles. He gave an automatic nod. Did not remember their names. Threw again. The Old Man … Billy started to call him “John.” That was not his real name and at first it irritated him because the John was also the men’s restroom, but Chapel automatically, definitely nicknamed him “John” from the first time they knew they were personal friends—which had become a habit of Chapel’s; after reading Hamlet he began to call his mother “Gertrude” and the habit went on to Carol—so the Old Man responded with “Bobby,” which was also not his name and which no one around them quite grasped. It was never explained, nor was that needed. In their own world, the Old Man and the boy, they were John, sometimes Old John, and Bobby, sometimes Roberto. In the office together, alone, out to dinner with a group, arguing, dreaming, planning, hoping, it was always John talking to Bobby, and there were times when other people tried those names—to be met with rage and silence. The two sons had tried—thought it their right. Chapel never answered. They still tried. The Old Man was gone. He had not been replaced. Until this day Chapel had not known how far gone he really was, thought of him always as out there in the bull pen, watching, or wandering up in the clouds, flying a small airplane, looking down. There was a place up in high Colorado, an empty clearing in the northern mountains above Glenwood Springs which somehow was the place where John would drop in someday, when he came back. Chapel flew there in the fall, sometimes landed in a small place in a Super Cub, sometimes with skis, and there was the place Chapel talked to the Old Man, and Pops, and sometimes Mom, and although he knew no one was there it was a visit Chapel had come to look forward to, because it was a lonely life, more and more, as you grew older on a failing team, loaded with slow ballplayers who would never join your “club” and were therefore never to be friends … except a few, who rose above that to be, somehow, a friend, without envy … or hope … those who still dreamed … like Gus. Only friend now, Gus. Carol … gone off to marry.
Throw harder. Loosen.
Oh where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
Oh where have you been, charmin’ Billy?
I have been to seek a wife
She’s the joy of my life
She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.
Again, Maxwell, tight and leaning forward, rocking.
“Hey listen, Chappie. I got a thought today. Today, I got this thought.”
Chapel smiled very slightly:
“Good for you.”
Maxwell: “Well, listen, old Gus always catches you, I know you fit together fine, but what do you think of this? What do you think if today we make a switch? Ha? What do you think?”
Chapel stopped throwing. Maxwell was rubbing his mouth, rocking.
Maxwell: “Got to hit ’em today. Just somebody up there swingin’. Hard. Gus don’t … Christ, you know. This team don’t hit, they don’t back you up. But that other guy—what the hell’s his name?—he can’t hang in there like Gus and he don’t have the arm, either, but Christ, off you nobody gets on base for a long time, so that don’t hurt, not with you throwin’, so I don’t worry about that. Why don’t we give Gus a rest today? Yeah.” He nodded. “That’s it. That’s what we need. More power. We need more power.”
“No,” Chapel said.
Maxwell was looking toward Bell, who was catching Chapel, and who did not hear this conversation, did not know he was the one Maxwell was talking about. He was crouching there peacefully, chewing, waiting. Maxwell did not notice what Chapel said.
Maxwell: “I wish to Christ we’d brought up that kid from the minors—hell, there are two different kids we’re gonna try next year, from the South—” He swung to eye Chapel. “What?”
“No,” Chapel said.
Maxwell stared, mouth open.
“Gus catches. Only Gus. You hear me. I hope. I hope to Christ you hear me.”
Chapel put both hands straight down, one with the glove, one with the ball, looked into Maxwell’s eyes with a look that made Maxwell instinctively back away.
Maxwell said: “Billy. Jesus … what the hell’s the matter?”
“I have my reasons. Gus catches today. That’s it. That’s all she wrote.” Chapel signaled to Bell, started to throw again.
“Billy,” Maxwell straightened, came vaguely, softly alert. “Billy, you tryin’ to tell me how to run this ball club? You, Billy, of all people?”
“Nope. But Max, today … it’s me and Gus. I need him. I never asked you any other time. Today … I go with Gus. Fine. Glad you agree. Don’t want to fight now. Not today. No time. Today it’s me and Gus. Right. Fine. Now let me warm up.”
He leaned back, threw. Maxwell stood there. In silence. Chapel was ready. Will leave now, if necessary. Maxwell was watching him. Maxwell may have understood. Leave him alone. In a moment, Maxwell moved off. Then he stopped. He said slowly: “Okay, Billy. For you. Gus goes. But if we need a pinch hitter.…” Maxwell moved off.
Chapel began to throw again. Then there was another coming, a big Yank: Joe Birch.
He had been in the league almost as long as Chapel, had come up the year following, as a catcher, and he was one of the few truly great hitters. He was one of the big boys you met every now and then at banquets and he caught Chapel every year at the All-Star Game, and the friendship had begun a long time ago, when they began facing each other at the plate and leaving always with increasing admiration. They flew together sometimes, and hunted, and went out for a drink just to talk once in a while even though they’d never played on the same team. He was the best hitter Billy had ever faced. Billy had struck him out four consecutive times in one game. In the next game Birch had hit what may have been the longest home run in the history of his stadium off Billy’s golden fastball. There was a joke going the rounds about something Birch once said after Billy struck him out with the third fastball, Old Smokey, the superfast number one into which Chapel put everything he had but threw only when absolutely necessary, and that one day he threw it right by Birch, about as fast as he’d ever thrown a ball, and Birch had turned to the umpire who’d called it the third strike—who was it? Meyers, Dave Meyers?—and Birch had said: “Dammit, Dave, that pitch sounded low to me.”
Birch approached with a waving hand.
“Howdy, Billy. How’s it go?”
“Fine, Josephus. How’s it with you?”
Chapel thought: but, it’s not fine. Tell him? He’ll know … soon enough. Him, too. Not long now. I hope … Good luck.
Birch said wistfully: “Looky here, Billy, why don’t you sit down today and take a rest. Will you do that? Tell ’em, hell, your arm hurts. Today. Do it as a favor. I swear to God, I’ll strike out on purpose next game I see you. How about a deal?”
Chapel had to grin.
“Strike out? You? Joe, you don’t know how. You’d swing without thinkin’.”
“Well, I’d sure like to get into the Series this year. We gettin’ on in years, you and me, and all these little boys around here, hell, why don’t you just … take a break.”
“Free shave today, Joe,” Chapel said cheerily.
“Get ready to duck. Well. Luck, Billy. Good to see you.”
He tapped the cap and moved off. Damn good man. Strange world. Never did figure. Talent doesn’t go naturally with decency and warmth and kindness. Some of the good ones are bastards and some are … just fine. Doesn’t
go together. Some of the nicest … real bad ballplayers … doin’ their best. What kind of world.… He glanced upward, toward the empty sky. You sure don’t make much sense. But … I play it your way.
Dum dum. Don’t talk to God today. Keep your mind intact, anyway. Nut. Enjoy the music.
He threw the last few. Time was approaching. He was done.
Warmth, peace, calmness in the arm. He put on the jacket and began the long, slow walk to the bench. The stands were rising, the genuine screams were beginning. Then came the performance: national anthem.
Introduction of the ballplayers. Big day. When they got to his name and he stepped forward there was a vast, surprising cheer. Billy touched the cap … to the enemy audience. Respect. A comedian somewhere: I don’t get no respect. He walked to the bench. They may never do that again. Calmly now. Better stop thinking about that part of it, if you can. Can you? I hope so. I hope to Christ I can settle down. Somehow.
One more time.
Song: Make believe you love me, one more time. For the good times.…
His own team was going to bat. The visiting team, hitting first. Chapel had the rough time, the waiting time. The man pitching against him that day was the Yankee ace, their best, Dave Durkee. People were still standing. Chapel was cheered that from inside the dugout you did not have to look at the faces of the owners. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, as was his natural custom and had been for twenty years … went into the quieting dark … saw the face of Carol. Lovely face. Blinked, opened his eyes. Felt a wave of sudden depression. No good to think of her now, not now. When this is over … there’ll be time enough.… “Billy, you don’t need me.”
Love.
Do you love that girl, Billy?
What a hell of a time … hell of a question.…
Gus sat next to him. Chapel was grateful. Gus was gloomy, scared.
“Hell of a day, man, hell of a day. Christ, I wish.…” He didn’t finish. He peered at Chapel: “How you doin’, ole buddy?”
“Oh, fine.”
“Stay loose, stay loose. Hey, how’d it really go with Carol?”
“Carol? Oh. She quit her job.”
“Quit? She get into a fight with somebody?”
“No. She just thinks it’s time to go home. She’s … thirty-four.”
“Hmm. But … she ain’t mad at you?”
“No. But she said … she said I don’t need her.”
Gus squinted. Nodded.
Chapel: “She was married once.” Gus nodded. “It was a royal mess. When I met her … she swore never again. So we … we had a lot of fun, you know? We really did.”
“She gettin’ married.”
“I think so.”
“Yep,” Gus nodded. “Well. Way the ball bounces.”
The man at the plate popped up. There was a roar of joy from the crowd. Gus started latching his gear. Chapel said: “Funny thing, Gus. Funny thing.”
“What?”
“We were never serious about … nothing. We were out to paint the town. And we did. Gee, she was … she was fun to be with. Always. But.…”
Third out. Gus stood up. But Chapel went on sitting.
Gus: “Time to go, Chappie. You ready?”
But Chapel said, mystified: “That was always the point. Have fun. Enjoy. But if you start to care for something … when you begin to care … that’s what hurts you.”
He stood up, shaking his head. “The thing you care for, that’s where the real pain comes from.…”
Gus said: “Chappie? One thing I got to know. You gonna quit? Really quit?”
Chapel nodded. “Yep.”
Gus: “No doubt at all?”
“No.”
“Well,” Gus said, “then whatya say we go on out and.…” He couldn’t finish. He patted Chapel on the shoulder, started jogging off toward the plate.
Chapel pulled off the jacket, dropped it on the bench. He started out toward the mound. The Yankees were coming up. He heard the great roar from the crowd beginning, and then slowly, slowly, as he threw the last few pitches for the last warm-up, all that sound began to fade away, and he was alone …
THE GAME
PART ONE
HE PUT HIS foot on the rubber and the sound faded slowly away. He was no longer aware of the crowd. He saw no faces, no flags, heard no sound at all from the mass out there. He moved on into a narrow clear intense fascinating world. He could hear the thoughts of his own mind, always with a bit of background music, quiet music sometimes, flowing around through all the skull: sometimes he hummed softly, so softly that few people knew it because he was rarely heard. He moved into a time of intense concentration. He was aware of that hitter, him first and last, everything about him, his manner of standing, looking, moving, setting, and then of Gus behind him, the fingers of Gus’s hand, the signals, then of the count, of the men on base, of the position of the team, of the umpires and their personalities and the looks on their faces and how they stood, of the game; of nothing else at all. He played every game in this way: from man to man, from pitch to pitch, aware of the way they stood, all their motions, with total concentration which excluded everything else, and the only other thing he had ever done like it was play chess a few times as a boy. As long as he had the concentration truly it was total: there was only the hitter, the game. When the concentration began to fade and the sounds came back and you began to look round and see all those other extraneous unnecessary things … then it was that you began to lose all the rest of it, the speed, the control, even the knowledge, and although you could last a bit longer if you wanted to hard enough and worked very very hard and had some luck, mostly you knew it was only a little while now till they started to hit you, and hit you, and it was time to fade out, call the relief … you were close to the end. He had pitched that way all his life; it was natural to him even as a boy. He moved into that other world as he warmed up. Then Gus came out to the mound.
“Umpire today is Dave Meyers.” Gus pointed a thumb to the dark suit behind the plate. “That’s good. Ain’t it?”
Chapel nodded. Meyers was a man who had great respect for Chapel. So much that if there was doubt in his mind about whether the pitch just thrown was a ball or a strike he usually figured that with Chapel throwing it was probably a strike, and he called them that way. It was a good day to have him there. Gus said: “Well. Boss. What’s the word?”
“You know them all, well as I do. Same three. As always. Robinson first. Then Parrilli, you know.”
“Right.”
“But. One thing. I’m going to throw a little harder than usual.”
“Gonna smoke ’em out?”
“Yep.”
Gus understood. “Right. But take it easy. Don’t throw it away too soon.”
“Today.” Chapel paused. “I’m throwing hard.”
Gus looked at him for a long moment, then put out the ball, and when Chapel took it Gus held it for a long second.
“All the way,” Gus said. Then he turned and ran heavily away: a big man, a round man, tucked himself in behind the plate.
Chapel looked down at the new white ball, rolled it in his hand. His mind said: “God is with thee.” That was surprising; he had no idea where it had come from. He looked to the plate: the first hitter, Robinson, had moved into position, was setting his feet.
Billy Chapel and Gus Osinski worked as a team with their own signal system. Chapel had been in that league too long and knew too much to need much guidance so Gus rarely sent any signals. Chapel would stand motionless for a while, one long second, two, and Gus would usually anticipate the pitch and flick the finger signal for that one, and Chapel would nod his head or touch his forehead or his cap, sometimes even shake his head, out of that one long moment of immobility, so Gus would know what was coming. Gus rarely had to send more than two signals to get the right one and get back the nod, although Chapel threw a great many different kinds and speeds, but they had been together for four years, and for them it seemed natural. They bo
th knew the hitters they were facing, would face, and talked much of them in the evenings, and unless someone new and unknown came into a game Gus knew what Chapel had planned and would throw. But there was one thing about Chapel as a pitcher which was rare and unpredictable.
Chapel had begun to learn as a boy that he could judge the hitter’s mind by the motion of his body. Chapel would always study the hitter’s stance, the setting of his feet, the motion of head and hands, fingers on the bat, and Chapel would know when the man was ready and when he was not, sometimes even know what he was looking for, outside or inside, or if he was set for the curve, and it was not noticeable that Chapel was doing this. It was a gift few pitchers had in their eyes as strongly as Chapel, and Gus didn’t tell people about it but marveled at it himself. There were the eager boys who were often going for the first pitch, and they were the easiest. But then there were the big boys, those in a class with Josephus Birch, who almost never went for the first pitch, or even the second; they set themselves in there to watch and learn to time him that way, time the motion, and the first pitch was a gift and Chapel knew it and enjoyed it, but was careful to note the few times, the very few, when they were about to cross him up and go for the first one, to catch him off guard with a good clean easy one, and their message couldn’t be hidden then, in the way they stood there, waiting, and he always knew. Whether or not it was natural to Chapel to pitch that way, and how much he’d learned by listening and watching, he never knew. But he did not waste pitches: he was economical. He seldom hit anybody with a pitch; his control was too good for that. He threw directly overhead and he was a tall man coming down off the mound so his blazing speed was speeding downhill, and yet sometimes floated, seemed to suddenly rise. He could throw almost anything—not the knuckleball—and there had been a scientific study of the big curve he sometimes threw which was described as moving along then “suddenly rolling off a table.” Falling off the end, as Columbus supposedly expected to fall off the earth where the ocean ended. That was the best of the “sinkers.” He almost never threw at the same speed twice in a row: he had been judged as impossible to time. Birch said once: “Against you, Billy, I always got to guess. Always. Mostly too late. Sometimes too soon. But ah, Billy, sometimes, thank God, I’m right.” So with them all, but rarely at the beginning. Chapel began with speed and though he varied it he was always fast at the beginning, and they came up knowing that, and were without confidence in the way they stood, and it showed in their hitting: they were waiting for the later innings. And Chapel would throw the blazer often, early, but would vary the speed and every few innings would switch to sidearm, to a frightening fastball that was coming from a different direction. He had always been almost untouchable in the first few innings, and during that time most men knew it and did not truly set themselves, not until he began to slow, usually about the sixth inning. Then he would see them begin to move in closer to the plate and set the feet more firmly and he would perhaps switch to the sidearm, but not for long, because then he would begin to hear the sounds and his mind would wander and he would see beyond the hitter at the crowd, look through the screen at the faces of people, and then he would send the signal, and Maxwell would come out, and they would begin to stall enough to give relief time to warm up as much as necessary. That happened so often now, so often. But there was no good relief out in the pen anymore and so Maxwell was leaving him in too long, and so all this past year Chapel had been falling back like a soldier to a different position, closer to the sea, closer to the big waves, to where there was no place else to go. That was the feeling often in his mind. Now on retreat. Though he sometimes left them while still ahead he did not win them anymore, not with that same great consistency which had made him famous—even in fatigue he still had a magnificent fading charm—because the great basic weapon of that arm was always there and had not changed, not quite as strong or durable, drained too much by too many innings but with no real pain and no complaint, and he knew all that and had lost no faith at all. Chapel had great pride. As he stood up on the mound he reared back and cocked his foot high, very high, shooting up in a manner close to that of Marichal, a little like Palmer: men who faced him knew Chapel had confidence in himself, knew he would win. He brought with him an indescribable Presence, which was always there, always.
For Love of the Game Page 5