by Rick Wilber
Game six was a slugfest. Five homers: McCovey, Mays, Cepeda for the Giants; Naragon and Lemon for the Senators. Kaat and Antonelli were both knocked out early. The lead changed back and forth three times.
George hit three singles, a sacrifice fly, and drew a walk. He scored twice. The Senators came from behind to win, 10—8. In the ninth, George sprained his ankle sliding into third. It was all he could do to hobble into the locker room after the game.
“It doesn’t hurt,” George told the reporters. “Bar always says, and she knows me better than anybody, go ahead and ask around, ‘You’re the game one, George.’ Not the gamy one, mind you!” He laughed, smiled a crooked smile.
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” he told them. “That strong but silent type of thing. My father said so.”
12
Fonseca waited until Fidel emerged into the twilight outside the Fifth Street stadium exit. As Fonseca approached, his hand on the slick automatic in his overcoat pocket, his mind cast back to their political years in Havana, where young men such as they, determined to seek prominence, would be as likely to face the barrel of a pistol as an electoral challenge. Ah, nostalgia.
“Pretty funny, that Sen-a-TOR Bush,” Fonseca said. He shoved Fidel back toward the exit. Nobody was around.
If Fidel was scared, a slight narrowing of his eyes was the only sign. “What
is this about?”
“Not a thing. Raul says hello.”
“Hello to Raul.”
“Mirta says hello, too.”
“You haven’t spoken to her.” Fidel took a cigar from his mohair jacket, fished a knife from a pocket, trimmed off the end, and lit it with a battered Zippo. “She doesn’t speak with exiled radicals. Or mobsters.”
Fonseca was impressed by the performance. “Are you going to do this job, finally?”
“I can only do my half. One cannot make a sow look like a ballet dancer.”
“It is not apparent to our friends that you’re doing your half.”
“Tell them I am truly frightened, Luis.” He blew a plume of smoke. It was dark now, almost full night. “Meanwhile, I am hungry. Let me buy you a Washington dinner.”
The attitude was all too typical of Fidel, and Fonseca was sick of it. He had fallen under Fidel’s spell back in the university, thought him some sort of great man. In 1948, his self-regard could be justified as necessary boldness. But when the head of the National Sports Directory was shot dead in the street, Fonseca had not been the only one to think Fidel was the killer. It was a gesture of suicidal machismo of the sort that Fidel admired. Gunmen scoured the streets for them. While Fonseca hid in a series of airless apartments, Fidel got a quick tryout with the Giants, married Mirta, and abandoned Havana, leaving Fonseca and their friends to deal with the consequences.
“If you don’t take care, Fidel, our friends will buy you a Washington grave.” “They are not my friends—or yours.”
“No, they aren’t. But this was our choice, and you have to go through with it.” Fonseca watched a beat cop stop at the comer, then turn away down the street. He moved closer, stuck the pistol into Fidel’s ribs. “You know, Fidel, I have a strong desire to shoot you right now. Who cares about the World Series? It would be pleasant just to see you bleed.”
The tip of Fidel’s cigar glowed in the dark. “This Bush would be no hero then.”
“But I would be.”
“You would be a traitor.”
Fonseca laughed. “Don’t say that word again. It evokes too many memories.” He plucked the cigar from Fidel’s hand, threw it onto the sidewalk. “Athletes should not smoke.”
He pulled the gun back, drew his hand from his overcoat, and crossed the
street.
13
The night before, the Russians announced they had shot down U.S. spy plane over the Soviet Union. A pack of lies, President Nixon said. No such planes existed.
Meanwhile, on the clubhouse radio, a feverish announcer was discussing strategy for game seven. A flock of telegrams had arrived to urge the Senators on. Tacked on the bulletin board in the locker room, they gave pathetic glimpses into the hearts of the thousands who had for years tied their sense of well-being to the fate of a punk team like the Senators.
Show those racially polluted commie-symps what Americans stand for.
My eight year old son, crippled by polio, sits up in his wheel chair so that he can watch the games on TV.
Jesus Christ, creator of the heavens and earth, is with you.
As George laced up his spikes over his aching ankle in preparation for the game, thinking about facing Castro one last time, it came to him that he was terrified.
In the last week, he had entered an atmosphere he had not lived in since Yale. He was a hero. People had expectations of him. He was admired and courted. If he had received any respect before, it was the respect given to someone who refused to quit when every indication shouted he ought to try something else. He did not have the braggadocio of a Castro. Yet here, miraculously, he was shining.
Except he knew that Castro was better than he was, and he knew that anybody who really knew the game knew it, too. He knew that this week was a fluke, a strange conjunction of the stars that had knocked him into the “groove,” as the old man in the bar had said. It could evaporate at any instant. It could already have evaporated.
Lavagetto and Mr. Griffith came in and turned off the radio. “Okay, boys,” Lavagetto said. “People in this city been waiting a long time for this game. A lot of you been waiting your whole careers for it, and you younger ones might not get a lot of chances to play in the seventh game of the World Series. Nobody gave us a chance to be here today, but here we are. Let’s make the most of it, go out there and kick the blazes out of them, then come back in and drink some champagne!”
The team whooped and headed out to the field. Coming up the tunnel, the sound of cleats scraping damp concrete, the smell of stale beer and mildew, Bush could see a sliver of the bright grass and white baselines, the outfield fence and crowds in the bleachers, sunlight so bright it hurt his eyes. When the team climbed the dugout steps onto the field, a great roar rose from the throats of the thirty thousand fans. He had never heard anything so beautiful, or frightening The concentrated focus of their hope swelled George’s chest with unnamable emotion, brought tears to his eyes, and he ducked his head and slammed his fist into his worn first baseman’s glove.
The teams lined up on the first- and third-base lines for the National Anthem. The fans began cheering even before the last line of the song faded away, and George jogged to first, stepping on the bag for good luck. His ankle twinged; his whole leg felt hot. Ramos finished his warmups, the umpire yelled “Play ball!” and they began.
Ramos sent the Giants down in order in the top of the first. In the home half Castro gave up a single to Allison, who advanced to third on a single by Lemon. Killebrew walked. Bush came up with bases loaded, one out. He managed a fly ball to right, and Allison beat the throw to the plate. Castro struck out Bertoia to end the inning. 1—0, Senators.
Ramos retired the Giants in order in the second. In the third, Lemon homered to make it 2—0.
Castro had terrific stuff, but seemed to be struggling with his control. Or else he was playing games again. By the fourth inning he had seven strikeouts to go along with the two runs he’d given up. He shook off pitch after pitch, and Schmidt went out to argue with him. Rigney talked to him in the dugout, and the big Cuban waved his arms as if emphatically arguing his case.
Schmidt homered for the Giants in the fourth, but Ramos was able to get out of the inning without further damage. Senators, 2—1.
In the bottom of the fourth, George came up with a man on first. Castro struck him out on a high fastball that George missed by a foot.
In the Giants’ fifth, Spencer doubled off the wall in right. Alou singled him home to tie the game, and one out later, Mays launched a triple over Allison’s head into the deepest comer of center field
, just shy of the crazy wall protecting Mrs. Mahan’s backyard. Giants up, 3—2. The crowd groaned. As he walked out to the mound, Lavagetto was already calling for a left-hander to face McCovey. Ramos kicked the dirt, handed him the ball, and headed to the showers, and Stobbs came on to pitch to McCovey. He got McCovey on a grounder to George at first, and Davenport on a pop fly.
The Senators failed to score in the bottom of the fifth and sixth, but in the seventh George, limping for real now, doubled in Killer to tie the game, and was driven home, wincing as he forced weight down on his ankle, on a single by Naragon. Senators 4—3. The crowd roared.
Rigney came out to talk to Castro, but Castro convinced him to let him stay in. He’d struck out twelve already, and the Giants’ bullpen was depleted after the free-for-all in game six.
The score stayed that way through the eighth. By the top of the ninth the crowd was going wild in the expectation of a world championship. Lavagetto had pulled Stobbs, who sat next to Bush in his warmup jacket, and put in the right-hander Hyde, who’d led the team in saves.
The Giants mounted another rally. On the first pitch, Spencer laid a bunt down the first-base line. Hyde stumbled coming off the mound, and George, taken completely by surprise, couldn’t get to it on his bad foot. He got up limping, and the trainer came out to ask him if he could play. George was damned if he would let it end so pitifully, and shook him off. Alou grounded to first, Spencer advancing. Cepeda battled the count full, then walked.
Mays stepped into the box. Hyde picked up the rosin bag, walked off the mound, and rubbed up the ball. George could see he was sweating. He stepped back onto the rubber, took the sign, and threw a high fastball that Mays hit four hundred feet, high into the bleachers in left. The Giants leapt out of the dugout, slapping Mays on the back, congratulating each other. The fans tore their clothing in despair, slumped into their seats, cursed and moaned. The proper order had been restored to the universe. George looked over at Castro, who sat in the dugout impassively. Tavagetto came out to talk to Hyde; the crowd booed when the manager left him in, but Hyde managed to get them out of the inning without further damage. As the Senators left the field, the organist tried to stir the crowd, but despair had settled over them like a lead blanket. Giants, 6-4.
In the dugout, Tavagetto tried to get them up for the inning. “This is it, gentlemen. Time to prove we belong here.”
Allison had his bat out and was ready to go to work before the umpire had finished sweeping off the plate. Castro threw three warmups and waved him into the box. When Allison lined a single between short and third, the crowd cheered and rose to their feet. Sievers, swinging for the fences, hit a nubbler to the mound, a sure double play. Castro pounced on it in good time, but fumbled the ball, double-clutched, and settled for the out at first. The fans cheered.
Rigney came out to talk it over. He and Schmidt stayed on the mound a long time, Castro gesturing wildly, insisting he wasn’t tired. He had struck out the side in the eighth.
Rigney left him in, and Castro rewarded him by striking out Lemon for his seventeenth of the game, a new World Series record. Two down. Killebrew was up. The fans hovered on the brink of nervous collapse. The Senators were torturing them; they were going to drag this out to the last fatal out, not give them a clean killing or a swan-dive fade—no, they would hold out the chance of victory to the last moment, then crush them dead.
Castro rubbed up the ball, checked Allison over his shoulder, shook off a couple of Schmidt’s signs, and threw. He got Killebrew in an 0-2 hole, then threw four straight balls to walk him. The crowd noise reached a frenzy.
And so, as he stepped to the plate in the bottom of the ninth, two outs, George Herbert Walker Bush represented the winning run, the potential end to twenty-seven years of Washington frustration, the apotheosis of his life in baseball, or the ignominious end of it. Castro had him set up again, to be the glorious goat for the entire Series. His ankle throbbed. “Cmon, Senator!” Lavagetto shouted. “Make me a genius!”
Castro leaned forward, shook off Schmidt’s call, shook off another. He went into his windup, then paused, ball hidden in his glove, staring soberly at George— not mocking, not angry, certainly not intimidated—as if he were looking down from a reconnaissance plane flying high above the ballpark. George tried not to imagine what he was thinking.
Then Castro lifted his knee, strode forward, and threw a fat hanging curve, the sweetest, dopiest, laziest pitch he had thrown all day. George swung. As he did, he felt the last remaining strength of the dying Babe Ruth course down his arms. The ball kissed off the sweet spot of the bat and soared, pure and white as a six-year-old’s prayer, into the left-field bleachers.
The stands exploded. Fans boiled onto the field even before George touched second. Allison did a kind of hopping balletic dance around the bases ahead of him, a cross between Nureyev and a man on a pogo stick. The Senators ran out of the dugout and bear-hugged George as he staggered around third; like a broken-field runner he struggled through the fans toward home. A weeping fat man in a plaid shirt, face contorted by ecstasy, blocked his way to the plate, and it was all he could do to keep from knocking him over.
As his teammates pulled him toward the dugout, he caught a glimpse over his shoulder of the Franchise standing on the mound, watching the melee and George at the center of it with an inscrutable expression on his face. Then George was pulled back into the maelstrom and surrendered to his bemused joy.
14
Long after everyone had left and the clubhouse was deserted, Fidel dressed, and instead of leaving walked back out to the field. The stadium was dark, but in the light of the moon he could make out the trampled infield and the obliterated base paths. He stood on the mound and looked around at the empty stands. He was about to leave when someone called him from the dugout. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Fidel approached. It was a thin man in his sixties. He wore a sporty coat and a white dress shirt open at the collar. “Yes?” Fidel asked.
“The field is beautiful.”
Fidel sat next to him on the bench. They stared across the diamond. The wind rustled the trees beyond the outfield walls. “Some people think so,” Fidel said.
“I thought we might have a talk,” the man said. “I’ve been waiting around the ballpark before the last few games trying to get hold of you.”
“I don’t think we have anything to talk about, Mr . . .”
“Weaver. Buck Weaver.”
“Mr. Weaver. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.”
The man came close to smiling. “I know about winning the World Series. And losing it. I was on the winning team in 1917, and the losing one in 1919.”
“You would not be kidding me, old man?”
“No. For a long time after the second one, I couldn’t face a ball park. Especially during the Series. I might have gone to quite a few, but I couldn’t make myself do it. Now I go to the games every chance I get.”
“You still enjoy baseball.”
“I love the game. It reminds me of where my body is buried.” As he said all of this the man kept smiling, as if it were a funny story he was telling and a punch line waited in the near future.
“You should quit teasing me, old man,” Fidel said. “You’re still alive.”
“To all outward indications I’m alive, most of the year now. For a long time I was dead the year round. Eventually I was dead only during the summer, and now it’s come down to just the Series.”
“You are the mysterious one. Why do you not simply tell me what you want with me?”
“I want to know why you did what you just did.”
“What did I do?”
“You threw the game.”
Fidel watched him. “You cannot prove that.”
“I don’t have to prove it. I know it, though.”
“How do you know it?”
“Because I’ve seen it done before.”
From somewhere in his boyhood, Fidel recalled the name now. Buck Weaver. The 1919 Series
. “The Black Sox. You were one of them.”
That appeared to be the punch line. The man smiled. His eyes were set in painful nets of wrinkles. “I was never one of them. But I knew about it, and that was enough for that bastard Landis to kick me out of the game.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“At first I wanted to stop you. Now I just want to know why you did it. Are you so blind to what you’ve got that you could throw it away? You’re not a fool. Why?”
“I have my reasons, old man. Eighty thousand dollars, for one.”
“You don’t need the money.”
“My brother in prison does. The people in my home do.”
“Don’t give me that. You don’t really care about them.”
Fidel let the moment stretch, listening to the rustling of the wind through the trees, the traffic in the distant street. “No? Well, perhaps. Perhaps I did it just because I could. Because the game betrayed me, because I wanted to show it is as corrupt as the mierda around it. It’s not any different from the world. You know how it works. How every team has two black ballplayers—the star and the star’s roommate.” He laughed. “It’s not a religion, and this place”— he gestured at Griffith Stadium looming in the night before them—“is not a cathedral.”
“I thought that way, when I was angry,” Weaver said. “I was a young man. I didn’t know how much it meant to me until they took it away.”
“Old man, you would have lost it regardless. How old were you? Twenty-five? Thirty? In ten years it would have been taken from you anyway, and you’d be in the same place you are now.”
“But I’d have my honor. I wouldn’t be a disgrace.”
“That’s only what other people say. Why should you let their ignorance affect who you are?”
“Brave words. But I’ve lived it. You haven’t—yet ” Plainly upset, Weaver walked out onto the field to stand at third base. He crouched; he looked in toward the plate. After a while he straightened, a frail old man, and called in toward Fidel: “When I was twenty-five, I stood out here; I thought I had hold of a baseball in my hand. It turned out it had hold of me.”