He found himself thinking of maybe quitting the deal with the Judge. He could send a note up there saying the fix was off. But he couldn’t think what to write Memo. He tried to imagine what it would be like living without her and couldn’t stand the thought of the loneliness.
Dave Olson opened the sixth with the Knights’ first hit, a thumping double. The stands sounded like a gigantic drawerful of voices that had suddenly been pulled open. But Benz went down swinging, then Fowler bunted into another quick d.p. and the drawerful of voices was shut. Roy wondered about that bunt. He had a notion Fowler would commit himself soon because time was on the go. But Fowler didn’t, making it another sweep of three Pirates. He had thus far given up only two safeties. In the seventh, the Knights, sensing Vogelman was tiring, found their way to him. Allie Stubbs chopped a grass cutter through a hole in the infield for a single. Baker, attempting to lay down a bunt, was overanxious and struck out. Then Flores lifted one just above the first baseman’s frantic fingers, and Stubbs, running with his head down, sprang safely into third. Roy was on deck but with two on base his heart misgave him. The crowd jumped to its feet, roaring for him to come through.
As he approached the plate, the sun, that had been plumbing the clouds since the game began, at last broke through and bathed the stadium in a golden glow that caused the crowd to murmur. As the warmth fell upon him, Roy felt a sob break in his throat. The weakness left his legs, his heart beat steadily, his giddy gut tightened, and he stood firm and strong upon the earth. Though it startled him to find it so, he had regained a sense of his own well-being. A thousand springlike thoughts crowded through his mind, blotting out the dark diagnosis of the white-mustached specialist. He felt almost happy, and that he could do anything he wanted, if he wanted. His eyes scanned the forward rows in left field but stopped at Zipp’s surly face. He felt suddenly anguished at what he had promised the Judge.
On his first swing — at a bad pitch — Otto let out a stream of jeers, oaths, and horn hoots that burned Roy to his bones. I will get that little ass-faced bastard. On the next pitch he shortened his hold on Wonderboy, stepped in front of the ball, and pulled it sharply foul. The ball whizzed past Otto’s nose and boomed down an entrance way. The dwarf turned into flour, then as the blood rushed back to his face, grew furious. He jumped up and down on his seat, shook his fist, and screeched curses.
“Carrion, offal, turd — flush the bowl.”
Roy tried to send the next ball through his teeth. It hit the rail with a bong and bounced into the air. A fan behind Otto caught it in his straw hat. Though the crowd laughed, the boos at Roy grew louder. Red Blow held up two warning fingers. Roy chopped a third foul at the dwarf. With a shriek he covered his face with his arms and ducked.
Several rows up from Otto, a dark-haired woman in a white dress had risen and was standing alone amid the crowd. Christ, another one, Roy thought. At the last split second he had tried to hold his swing but couldn’t. The ball spun like a shot at Otto, struck his hard skull with a thud, and was deflected upward. It caught the lady in the face, and to the crowd’s horror, she went soundlessly down.
A commotion rose in the stands. Fans by the hundreds piled out of their seats to get at her but the cops and ushers blocked their way, warning them not to crush her to death. Stuffy Briggs called time. Roy dropped his bat, hopped into the boxes and ran up the stairs — his clacking cleats shooting sparks — and along the aisle to where she lay. Many of the fans were standing on their seats to see and there was a crowd pressed around her. Murmuring lynch threats, they let Roy through. A doctor was attending her but she was stretched out unconscious.
Roy already knew who it was. “Iris,” he groaned.
Iris woke, opened her good eye and sighed, “Roy.”
Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the clubhouse. Doc Casey and Dizzy kept everybody out. Max Mercy, hot for news, jammed his foot in the door but Dizzy crushed it hard, and Max danced as he cursed.
Roy gently laid her on the trainer’s table. The left side of her face was hurt, bruised and rainbow-colored. Her eye was black and the lid thick. But the right side was still calm and lovely.
What have I done, he thought, and why did I do it? And he thought of all the wrong things he had done in his life and tried to undo them but who could?
The doctor went out to call an ambulance. Roy closed the door after him.
“Oh, Roy,” sighed Iris.
“Iris, I am sorry.”
“Roy, you must win —”
He groaned. “Why didn’t you come here before?”
“My letter — you never answered.”
He bowed his head.
The doctor entered. “Contusions and lacerations. Not much to worry about, but to be on the safe side she ought to be X-rayed.”
“Don’t spare any expenses,” Roy said.
“She’ll be fine. You can go back to the game now.”
“You must win, Roy,” said Iris.
Seeing there was more to this than he had thought, the doctor left.
Roy turned to her trying to keep in mind that she was a grandmother but when he scanned the fine shape of her body, he couldn’t. Instead there rose in him an odd disgust for Memo. It came quickly, nauseating him.
“Darling,” whispered Iris, “win for our boy.”
He stared at her. “What boy?”
“I am pregnant.” There were tears in her eyes.
Her belly was slender… then the impact hit him.
“Holy Jesus.”
Iris smiled with quivering lips.
Bending over, he kissed her mouth and tasted blood. He kissed her breasts, they smelled of roses. He kissed her hard belly, wild with love for her and the child.
“Win for us, you were meant to.”
She took his head in her hands and drew it to her bosom. How like the one who jumped me in the park that night he looks, she thought, and to drive the thought away pressed his head deeper into her breasts, thinking, this will be different. Oh, Roy, be my love and protect me. But by then the ambulance had come so they took her away.
In the dugout Pop confronted him with withering curses.
“Get in there and attend to business. No more monkey shines or I will pitch you out on your banana.”
Roy nodded. Climbing out of the dugout, to his dismay he found Wonderboy lying near the water fountain, in the mud. He tenderly wiped it dry. Stuffy called time in and the Pirates, furious at the long delay (Wickitt had demanded the forfeit of the game, but Pop had scared Stuffy into waiting for Roy by threatening to go to court), returned to their positions, Allie and Flores to third and first, and Roy stepped into the batter’s box to face a storm of Bronx cheers. They came in winddriven sheets until Vogelman reared and threw, then they stopped.
It was 0 and 2 on him because, except for the one he had purposely missed, Roy had turned each pitch into a foul. He watched Vogelman with burning eyes. Vogelman was almost hypnotized. He saw a different man and didn’t like what he saw. His next throw was wide of the plate. Ball one. Then a quick ball two, and the pitcher was nervous again. He took a very long time with the next throw but to his horror the pellet slipped away from him and hit the dirt just short of the plate. Allie broke for home but the catcher quickly trapped it and threw to third. Flopping back, Allie made it with his fingers. Flores, in the meantime, had taken second.
And that was ball three. Roy now prayed for a decent throw.
Vogelman glanced at Allie edging into a lead again, kicked, and threw almost in desperation. Roy swung from his cleats.
Thunder crashed. The pitcher stuffed his maimed fingers into his ears. His eyes were blinded. Pop rose and crowed himself hoarse. Otto Zipp, carrying a dark lump on his noodle, cowered beneath the ledge. Some of the fans had seen lightning, thought it was going to rain, and raised their coat collars. Most of them were on their feet, raving at the flight of the ball. Allie had raced in to score, so had Flores, and Roy was heading into second, when the umpire waved them a
ll back. The ball had landed clearly foul. The fans groaned in shuddering tones.
Wonderboy lay on the ground split lengthwise, one half pointing to first, the other to third.
The Knights’ bat boy nervously collected both the pieces and thrust a Louisville Slugger into Roy’s limp hand. The crowd sat in raw silence as the nerveless Vogelman delivered his next pitch. It floated in, perfect for pickling, but Roy failed to lift the bat.
Lajong, who followed, also struck out.
With the Knights back in the field, Fowler quickly gave up a whacking triple to the first Pirate hitter. This was followed by a hard double, and almost before any of the stunned fans could realize it, the first run of the game was in. Pop bounced off the bench as if electrocuted and signaled the bullpen into hot activity. Red Blow sauntered out to the mound to quiet Fowler down but Fowler said he was all right so Red left.
The next Pirate laced a long hopper to left. The shouting of the crowd woke Roy out of his grief for Wonderboy. He tore in for the ball, made a running jab for it and held it. With an effort he heaved to third, holding both runners to one bag. He knew now he was right about Fowler. The pitcher had pulled the plug. Roy signaled time and drifted in to talk to him. Both Red and Dave Olson also walked forward for a mound conference but Roy waved them back. As he approached the dark-faced Fowler, he saw the Judge up at the window, puffing his cigar.
Roy spoke in a low voice. “Watch out, kid, we don’t want to lose the game.”
Fowler studied him craftily. “Cut the crap, big shot. A lotta winning you been doing.”
“Throw the ball good,” Roy advised him.
“I will, when you start hitting it.”
“Listen,” Roy said patiently. “This might be my last season in the game for I am already thirty-five. You want it to be yours?”
Fowler paled. “You wouldn’t dare open your trap.”
“Try something funny again and you will see.”
Fowler turned angrily away. The fans began to whistle and stamp. “Set ‘em up,” called Stuffy Briggs. Roy returned to left but after that, Fowler somehow managed to keep the next two men from connecting, and everybody said too bad that Roy hadn’t given him that pep talk after the first hit. Some of the fans remarked had anybody noticed that Roy had thumbed his nose up to the tower at the end of the inning?
Every time Vogelman put Roy away, he felt infinitely better, consequently his pitching improved as the game progressed. Though he was surprised in the eighth to have Gabby Laslow touch him for a sharp single, he forced Olson to pop to short, Benz to line to him, and Fowler obliged by biting at three gamey ones for the last out. Counting up who he would have to throw to in the ninth, Vogelman discovered that if he got Stubbs, Baker, and the more difficult Flores out, there would be no Roy Hobbs to pitch to. The idea so excited him he determined to beat his brains out trying. Fowler, on the other hand, despite Roy’s good advice to him, got sloppier in his throwing, although subtly, so that nobody could be sure why, only his support was a whole lot better than he had hoped for, and neither of the first two Pirates up in the ninth, though they had walloped the ball hard, could land on base. Flores, the Mexican jumping bean, had nailed both shots. The third Pirate then caught a juicy pitch and poled out a high looping beauty to left, but Roy, running back — back — back, speared it against the wall. Though he was winded and cursed Fowler through his teeth, he couldn’t help but smile, picturing the pitcher’s disgust. And he felt confident that the boys would hold him a turn at bat and he would destroy Vogelman and save the game, the most important thing he ever had to do in his life.
Pop, on the other hand, was losing hope. His hands trembled and his false teeth felt like rocks in his mouth, so he plucked them out and dropped them into his shirt pocket. Instead of Allie, he called Ed Simmons to pinch hit, but Vogelman, working with renewed speed and canniness, got Ed to hit a soft one to center field. Pop swayed on the bench, drooling a little out of the corners of his puckered mouth. Red was a ghost, even his freckles were pale. The stands were shrouded in darkening silence. Baker spat and approached the plate. Remembering he hadn’t once hit safely today, Pop called him back and substituted Hank Kelly, another pinch hitter.
Vogelman struck him out. He dried his mouth on his sleeve, smiling faintly to himself for the first time since the game began. One more — the Mex. To finish him meant slamming the door on Hobbs, a clean shut-out, and tomorrow the World Series. The sun fell back in the sky and a hush hung like a smell in the air. Flores, with a crazed look in his eye, faced the pitcher. Fouling the first throw, he took for a ball, and swung savagely at the third pitch. He missed. Two strikes, there were only three… Roy felt himself slowly dying. You died alone. At least if he were up there batting… The Mexican’s face was lit in anguish. With bulging eyes he rushed at the next throw, and cursing in Spanish, swung. The ball wobbled crazily in the air, took off, and leaped for the right field wall. Running as though death dogged him, Flores made it, sliding headlong into third. Vogelman, drained of his heart’s blood, stared at him through glazed eyes.
The silence shattered into insane, raucous noise.
Roy rose from the bench. When he saw Pop searching among the other faces, his heart flopped and froze. He would gladly get down on his knees and kiss the old man’s skinny, crooked feet, do anything to get up there this last time. Pop’s haunted gleam settled on him, wavered, traveled down the line of grim faces… and came back to Roy. He called his name.
Up close he had black rings around his eyes, and when he spoke his voice broke.
“See what we have come to, Roy.”
Roy stared at the dugout floor. “Let me go in.”
“What would you expect to do?”
“Murder it.”
“Murder which?”
“The ball — I swear.”
Pop’s eyes wavered to the men on the bench. Reluctantly his gaze returned to Roy. “If you weren’t so damn busy gunning fouls into the stands that last time, you woulda straightened out that big one, and with three scoring, that woulda been the game.”
“Now I understand why they call them fouls.”
“Go on in,” Pop said. He added in afterthought, “Keep us alive.”
Roy selected out of the rack a bat that looked something like Wonderboy. He swung it once and advanced to the plate. Flores was dancing on the bag, beating his body as if it were burning, and jabbering in Spanish that if by the mercy of St. Christopher he was allowed to make the voyage home from third, he would forever after light candles before the saint.
The blank-faced crowd was almost hidden by the darkness crouching in the stands. Home plate lay under a deepening dusty shadow but Roy saw things with more light than he ever had before. A hit, tying up the game, would cure what ailed him. Only a homer, with himself scoring the winning run, would truly redeem him.
Vogelman was contemplating how close he had come to paradise. If the Mex had missed that pitch, the game would now be over. All night long he’d’ve felt eight foot tall, and when he got into bed with his wife, she’d’ve given it to him the way they do to heroes.
The sight of his nemesis crouched low in the brooding darkness around the plate filled him with fear.
Sighing, he brought himself, without conviction, to throw.
“Bo-ool one.”
The staring faces in the stands broke into a cry that stayed till the end of the game.
Vogelman was drenched in sweat. He could have thrown a spitter without half trying but didn’t know how and was afraid to monkey with them.
The next went in cap high.
“Eee bo-ool.”
Wickitt, the Pirate manager, ambled out to the mound.
“S’matter, Dutch?”
“Take me outa here,” Vogelman moaned.
“What the hell for? You got that bastard three times so far and you can do it again.”
“He gives me the shits, Walt. Look at him standing there like a goddamn gorilla. Look at his burning eyes. He ain’t
human.”
Wickitt talked low as he studied Roy. “That ain’t what I see. He looks old and beat up. Last week he had a mile-high bellyache in a ladies’ hospital. They say he could drop dead any minute. Bear up and curve ‘em low. I don’t think he can bend to his knees. Get one strike on him and he will be your nookie.”
He left the mound.
Vogelman threw the next ball with his flesh screaming.
“Bo-ool three.”
He sought for Wickitt but the manager kept his face hidden.
In that case, the pitcher thought, I will walk him. They could yank him after that — he was a sick man.
Roy was also considering a walk. It would relieve him of responsibility but not make up for all the harm he had done. He discarded the idea. Vogelman made a bony steeple with his arms. Gazing at the plate, he found his eyes were misty and he couldn’t read the catcher’s sign. He looked again and saw Roy, in full armor, mounted on a black charger. Vogelman stared hard, his arms held high so as not to balk. Yes, there he was coming at him with a long lance as thick as a young tree. He rubbed his arm across his eyes and keeled over in a dead faint.
A roar ascended skywards.
The sun slid behind the clouds. It got cold again. Wickitt, leaning darkly out of the dugout, raised his arm aloft to the center field bullpen. The boy who had been pitching flipped the ball to the bullpen catcher, straightened his cap, and began the long trek in. He was twenty, a scrawny youth with light eyes.
“Herman Youngberry, number sixty-six, pitching for the Pirates.”
Few in the stands had heard of him, but before his long trek to the mound was finished his life was common knowledge. He was a six-footer but weighed a skinny one fifty-eight. One day about two years ago a Pirate scout watching him pitching for his home town team had written on a card, “This boy has a fluid delivery of a blinding fast ball and an exploding curve.” Though he offered him a contract then and there, Youngberry refused to sign because it was his lifelong ambition to be a farmer. Everybody, including the girl he was engaged to, argued him into signing. He didn’t say so but he had it in mind to earn enough money to buy a three hundred acre farm and then quit baseball forever. Sometimes when he pitched, he saw fields of golden wheat gleaming in the sun.
The Natural Page 21