For Love of the Game

by Michael Shaara

  Gus: “Listen, this guy’s always trouble. You never … lucky. How ’bout walkin’ him? Everything outside. Far away. So’s he can’t—”

  “No,” Chapel said.

  The umpire, Meyers, had begun to move slowly out toward the mound. No more delay. But he came slowly.

  Gus said: “You’ve slowed a bit, Chappie. Just enough for this guy to get you. Hell, let’s put him on.”

  “Not today,” Chapel said. “Any other day … maybe … but today … Gus … ah … I can’t.”

  Gus gulped, put out a hand, patted the ball in Chapel’s hand.

  Chapel: “Gus, it’s the last time.”

  Gus: “Right. Well. I’m with you, Boss. Throw … throw hard.”

  He turned, started back toward the plate, met Meyers, who looked at Chapel and gave a friendly nod, and went back with him.

  Alone on the mound.

  No-hitter. That complicates things a bit.

  Oh, hell, I’ve been here before. Dozens of times. They always get to you … in the late innings. Count on nothing. Gee, it would be nice. He shook his head. Think no more … of the heat of the sun. Think of ole Joe. Hiya Joe, watcha want? Joe had stepped into the box, was setting, as always, with that patient wait for the coming explosion. Well. May never do this again. No time for caution. Go out with pride, Billy. Only way. He set himself, summoned up strength, leaned on into it, and threw the fastest pitch he was capable of throwing. Strike one.

  Pain burned the shoulder. Joe looked back in surprise, shook his head, backed out, came back again. Chapel could hear the crowd beginning to scream. Distracting. He stopped, took a long breath, then did it all again, gave it everything again, and it blazed. Joe swung and missed. Too late.

  Chapel: one more. If I get Joe this time … I’ll go home happy.

  Joe knew it was coming. He stood for a moment in doubt, searching Chapel’s stance, setting himself for a fraction of a second without certainty, and so Chapel did it again, the last time, and it went right on by and he swung late, not believing in what he saw, and he was out of there and Chapel felt a spasm of great joy, great pain, and backed off the mound to breathe and rest and thank God.

  The infield was pitching the ball around and Gus came out.

  “Wow.” Shook his head. “I tell you. Listen. How’s the arm?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Gus looked, nodded.

  “Okay, Boss. They can’t … they can’t touch you.”

  Chapel got the next two. The arm was beginning to burn, but it was working perfectly. Don’t much matter now. Medicine tonight, no pain tonight, take a long rest … yes, a long long rest, he promised the arm that, and so gave it all he had, and one popped up, but the last one caught the ball and hit a liner to deep center, the hardest hit ball of the day, but it was not far enough, and too high, and Johnson drifted easily gracefully under it and tucked it in, put it away, and the eighth was done.

  A long way to the bench now. The crowd had quieted, was watching him: he felt the eyes. One more to go. Last inning. Last day.

  Don’t think of that. Just three more. Think of them. But … all will be pinch hitters. Maybe not. Think of … Carol. Is she watching this? On the TV tube? I hope she is. I hope I get those three. Oh, God, if I get those three …

  Now at the bench no one would talk to him at all. They moved away into a bunch and rattled to themselves. No-hitter. It was the code. Don’t mention the words. Magic words. But all aware. Shut up. Play with the heart, not the arm. Because the arm, old buddy, is a-weary. Goin’ away for to leave you … not you.

  He touched then held the aching arm.

  Three more. Just those three. Can you do it?

  You can do it.

  Well at least old friend I’ll give it a hell of a try.

  He sat. Blank the mind. Push the button, as you do in a computer. Blank it all. Rest. But he had been concentrating all that day on each hitter as he came, one man at a time in total concentration, and now that had changed, it was no longer one hitter to be faced; the game had come alive, the world round him had begun to breathe, was real now in an awakened way, and so finally he realized the thing that was happening. It came out of that black darkness in the rear of the brain, intruded into the clear light of day. He thought: can’t be.

  He sat up, straight up. Turned, saw Gus. Gus was chewing on a fingernail: an unusual thing for him to do. There came a sudden tremendous roar from the crowd: the bench erupted. Chapel turned: Christopher had hit one: going, going, Christopher had rounded first, on to second, the ball hit the wall, high up, careened, Christopher rounded second and headed for third. Chapel began to scream, first time in years: “Make it, man, make it, gotta make it, slide!” Christopher hit the dirt, made it easily, safely, was in with a triple. The whole bench was ecstatic, was moving out in front of the dugout, roar from the crowd was gigantic, even the home crowd, very rare, very rare. Christopher had tripled. Chapel searched the board. One out. He could score on a fly. Please God. The old pro, Christopher. Under pressure, he does it. Maybe I can.… We’re going to get one. He started clapping his hands. Maxwell was hopping back and forth, yelling to people. Pinch-hitter?

  Out there was: the Dutchman. Chapel heard Gus screaming: “Get it out of here! Get it out of here! Lift it, lift it, lift it!” Chapel came up next to him, tapped his arm; Gus turned, blanched.

  “Go ’way and sit down, dammit. Rest, rest.”

  “Gus?”

  But Gus went yelling to the Dutchman to hit it—and the Dutchman did. Long fly ball. Durkee had tired enough, just enough. A fly to the far right. There’ll be time. Christopher had tagged. The fly was caught—too far away for hope for them … Christopher came home and scored.

  The elation of the team was the same as … a long time ago. The past was briefly back. Ahead now. Score: 1–0. “Gonna beat the Yanks!”

  “We got ’em, we got ’em. You, Chappie, sit down! We gonna get ’em!”

  He sat. Ah. Have not felt this way … if I can hold three more …

  Gus was putting on the gear.

  Chapel: who’s coming up? Bottom of the line. Last three. So. Will be pinch hitters. All three. Who the hell? Brain a haze, no memory came. Clear the head, old pro. The arm slowed on that last one or he’d never have hit it to center field. How much … time do you have?

  Then came back the slow cold clear message:

  Nobody on base.

  At all, at all.

  Third out came. The team was moving out, yelling to him, at themselves. Chapel stood.

  Thought: may well be the last time I ever do … stand here.

  No one on base? For eight innings.

  He started the long walk. He said slowly, to himself, to the arm: one more time: Kid, you do your best, you can get any three guys that ever lived.

  There was Gus at the mound. Chapel said, smiling: “Howdy.”

  There was Christopher, white-faced. Chapel said: “Thanks, ole buddy. Appreciate it.”

  Christopher, as intense now as Chapel had ever seen him, said through those gritted teeth: “Listen, you … you … but if I drop the ball myself, so help me, I’ll kill myself. You … give it to ’em, Chappie.”

  He was gone.

  It was quieting. Quieter and quieter, all over the field and the stands. They were beginning just to sit silently and watch. Very few cheers. Silent sound in the quiet air. Gus stood there just looking at him.

  Chapel said: “Gus? How many have they got on base.”

  Gus sort of shuddered. He said: “Nobody.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t sure.”

  “Didn’t think you were. But everybody else …”

  A perfect game.

  Chapel: “This I haven’t seen much of.”

  Gus: “Me neither.”

  After a moment Gus said: “Chappie, I never have.”

  “How many there been? How many guys ever pitched … ?”

  Gus: “I don’t know.”

  Chapel: “Six or eight. Ma
ybe a few more. I remember … Catfish Hunter. Few years ago. Larsen, at the World Series.”

  Gus nodded. Meyers was waiting back there, but this time he did not come out to get the game moving, he was going to give Chapel all the time he needed.

  Finally, Gus said: “Chappie, we’re all with you. All the way. You see the guys … you know. Three more to get. Only three. Throw anything. We’ll get ’em.”

  “I’ve slowed down a little.”

  Gus nodded. “Just a hair. Be careful.”

  Chapel: “I think I may have thrown … all I’ve got.”

  Gus put a hand out on his shoulder, squeezed.

  “Buddy, you throw. We’ll take care. Whatever … go on, buddy, go all the way like you’ve done so far today and you can’t lose … never.”

  He moved off.

  Chapel was alone. With eighty thousand eyes on him. Well aware of that. Uncomfortable. Shrug it off. He did.

  He backed off the mound, took off his cap, rubbed the sweating brow. No one on base at all. No walk, no hit, not even an error or anybody hit by a pitch. Nobody on at all. Nobody. So unusual a thing.… He looked up at the sky. Hadn’t prayed since childhood. Time for it now. He said to God: “Sir? In all my life … I never wanted something as much as I want these three. If you can help … I won’t be here again … you know how much I love … if you can help a little … just these three. I never asked before. But just these three. Please. I’d be obliged.”

  He put his cap back on. His lips hadn’t moved, he was flushing and could feel it. Hope they didn’t see that. Well, does it matter? Nope. Nothing at all matters. Except the three guys comin’. Gonna get them. So help me God.

  Saw the face of the first pinch hitter: Bum Neilsen. Does not hit well, but can hit the long ball. Why him now? Stupid. What they need now is a man on base. Ah … they think I’ve slowed, and he can hit the fastball. Very strong on the fastball. Well, no fastball. Dinky do sidearm, screwball best of all:

  Two fouls. A pop up to third.

  One down.

  Jubilation behind him.

  The right arm was going numb. Gus came out. Chapel saw Maxwell making signals to the outfield, moving them over. He did that when he knew Chapel had slowed and the hitters could begin getting in front of the ball and pulling it.

  Gus said: “Who the hell’s this next guy? You know him?”

  Chapel squinted.

  Fella called Sparky something. Fast. Chapel said: “Watch the bunt. He may bunt.”

  “Right. What you gonna do?”

  “Sidearm. Easier on the arm. And keep the ball rising.”

  First pitch worked. He tried to bunt, popped it foul.

  Second pitch got away: wild pitch, sailed over Gus’s head to the screen. Gus came out to calm him.

  “Jeez, Chappie, don’t hit nobody. Don’t give ’em the goddam base. You okay?” He looked toward Maxwell. No relief, goddammit. Not now of all times. Maxwell made no move. Thanks, Max. Gus said: “Sidearm curve, again, again. Okay? Okay.”

  He went back, crouched. The curve did not break well, almost caught Sparky in the head. That was close. But … go back now to the fastball. He knows you’re losin’ control, he’ll be tense and won’t dig in. Chapel went back to all the fastball that was left. It worked. Strike two. Hard to bunt now, he’ll be swinging now.

  Chapel threw the fastball past him, struck him out.

  The crowd all over the stadium was standing now. Chapel’s right arm was beginning to send stabs of intense pain. A little while, just a little while … but if this next guy gets on … don’t let him.

  How?

  Nothing came now, no plan.

  Hitter was McClendon. Good man.

  Last hitter.

  I hope to God.

  I got him last time … with the sinker. He won’t hit first pitch … how can you tell now … and hates the sinker. So. First pitch: fastball.

  The pitch hit the ground in front of the plate. Gus came out, talked. Chapel went back to the fastball. Untouched. Strike one.

  The sinker.

  Untouched.

  Strike two.

  Noise beginning around him.

  One more time.

  Curve broke outside. A ball.

  That’s a rare thing.

  Can’t even walk him.

  Chapel realized he had given everything he had, was close to collapse. Vision fading. Oh, hell, just one more pitch.

  There was nothing much there. He threw the sinker, but it didn’t sink. It just floated on in and McClendon swung and caught it and hit it hard to the right, skipping, skipping, on the ground toward left field, moving for the hole between third and short. Moving fast but not unreachable, not impossible, moving and moving and moving, and there was Christopher sprinting to his right, Manieri to his left, but it went by Manieri and Christopher made the long reach, all this now very slow, very slow, every moment etched in Chapel’s eyes: he saw Christopher glove the ball going hard to his right, glove it and start to swing round to throw, and McClendon was not a fast runner, not fast at all, and yet the ball was hit very far before Christopher got there so it was going to be very close … and all this took but a long second, two seconds, and seemed eternal and beautiful and unforgettable and magnificent when Christopher fired from a sinking falling dive, fired across the diamond to first base as fast as he had ever thrown, and there at first was a long arm out with the glove open for the ball, reaching, reaching, and McClendon coming, and the ball got there first … and the umpire’s arm went up … and McClendon was there too late, too late, and the game was over and it was done, it was done, and Chapel closed his eyes to the explosion that came. A moment later he was being carried in the air. Someone pressed a ball into his hand.

  The ball.

  To the victor…

  GOIN’ HOME

  LATE THAT NIGHT, very close to midnight, Chapel came back to the hotel. He came back in a car driven by Joe Birch, and Joe was so drunk he insisted on driving the car and it was an interesting drive, possibly the last one of all drives anywhere, up on sidewalks and round and through various shattered places Chapel could not clearly see, and even when they were stopped by the police—which happened several times—that produced another round of congratulations and some awed faces popping in out of the dark, hands extended, and the right arm really did hurt, all the way down to the hand, but it was mainly numbness, not truly the regal, kingly pain which would be there soon, very soon, Chapel knew that with certainty, but had a fine time. Very fine time. The locker room had been very messy and creamy and madhouse with noise. All the ballplayers and newspapermen all trying to take part in “one of the few great moments,” and then the sour moment: the owners came in through the mess and the crowd; the way was parted for the holy two, who were carrying much champagne, blabbering away messages Chapel could not hear, nor try to, and putting out hands Chapel was polite enough to shake. Chapel did not want to talk and so did not, and that was easy, but even in that place, among all that foaming noise, they, the owners, could tell from Chapel’s eyes that he knew, and they did not come within range for long. But they sent in much champagne and so the drinking developed, expanded, blossomed, bloomed, which Chapel did not truly enjoy, because as a pilot he seldom drank at all, but the champagne was good. He avoided interviews as best he could. Ross, the TV man, did not show. Chapel knew: he’s off already telling the whole story. Well, he’s got it, and I guess he deserves it, because if I hadn’t known, would I have … ?

  So. There is a debt. Yes.

  One other thing he wanted to do was shake the hands of the men who’d played out there today. He got to most of them. Some of the Yankees showed up, Joe Birch and the last big man, McClendon, and it got entertaining. The moment had come … and gone … but was locked in there now forever. Much booze, which hit Chapel soon because he was tired, and there was too much in the locker room, too much of being surrounded almost underground, which was not natural to Chapel, who was at home out in the wide free open countr
y and felt claustrophobia coming on. Then there was Gus by his side, at first shook too much by the reality of it to come near Chapel at all, just sat off by himself, starry-eyed, drinking, but he came at last to get the words into Chapel’s ear: Ross had broken the news of the trade. Chapel digested. News story was spreading—flock of those people would be here very soon, coming for the Word. Chapel decided to move on. He grabbed Gus and took him along, making sure not to lose him. Not now.

  So out they went with Joe Birch—in the car he’d won as Most Valuable Player somewhere—and some other people, and they went up to Birch’s apartment getting happily gleefully almost tearfully stoned and they passed through some of the better times telling the funny stories of this wild thing that happened to Joe, back in the old days, and that one to Billy, back in the old days before “all the shit began to hit the fan,” which was a fine old saying from the good old days, and toward the end they were finally beginning to look back on the night just past and see that it was all true, a perfect game, and began to drink to each other as partners in the night together, hard to separate the winners from the losers: it was a day of “Greatness.” “One of the great days, Chappie. One of the days of Greatness. Salud.” And he drank to Chapel, and after that they quieted a bit and began to feel the emotion of the passing times. Then men put arms around each other—truly an uncommon event, and Chapel couldn’t help remembering Carol’s question: are you gay, Billy Boy?—and wished she was there. Had she seen it? Did she know anything of it, the—God in heaven!—the perfect game? What would she say now … if she knew? I sure hope she knows. I bet she shows tonight. I bet she can’t get in. Hell, nobody knows where I am, if she’s looking … but why should she be looking, stupe? She’s gone. Faretheewell, for I must leave thee, do not let the parting grieve thee, for the time has come when even best of friends must part.… He started automatically to sing that aloud, and they all joined in and so the night began to end. They began to fade away. Chapel went off thinking about Carol, and then about that last inning, and the whole game was already shaping itself in the back of his head like a great book he’d read and would now be there on the shelf to read always, to move you as the great stuff always did, to turn the pages of innings now and for as long as … time went on.