Shake, glance, throw. Shake, glance, throw. A few minutes passed, and all that had happened was that the pitcher had still not agreed with the catcher on a pitch and had thrown to first base several times.
“Amazing that you Americans think soccer so boring.” I did not intend to be overly provocative, but this game of throw and catch grew quickly tedious. At least in soccer, the ball always moves. Here, these ruffians seemed to be spending most of their time scratching their privates. “There seems to be nothing happening.”
“And there never seems to be anything happening in a Jane Austen novel,” Nicole said, “unless you read between the lines.”
“I believe I have just been victimized by a vicious punster,” I said, contemplating the white lines that formed the border of the playing area. “As you Americans say, I will bite. Tell me what it is I am missing. I am all ears.”
“There’s a lot of options here,” Nicole began. “The guy on first is fast. He’s very fast. Jenkins is—”
“Jenkins!” I exclaimed. “Where?”
“No,” Kern said, “who’s on first.”
In a moment, my composure returned. No, my former investment manager was not playing minor league baseball.
“This guy, Jenkins, is real fast,” Nicole continued, unfazed by the interruptions. “With his speed, he’s a big threat to steal or take an extra base on a hit. So, the pitcher tries to keep him close by throwing to first repeatedly.”
Nicole explained how a speedy base runner provides greater options for the batting team in its effort to move him closer to the eventual goal. She spoke of “bunts” and “steals” and something called “the hit-and-run.” Somehow, it sounded dangerous, as well as a problem for the opposing team.
“Now, the defense is fully aware of all of this,” Nicole continued. “They might call for a pitch-out. That’s when the pitcher throws intentionally out of the strike zone where the batter can’t hit it. The catcher can get to it and make a good, strong throw to second base, hopefully if the runner is running.”
“Ah,” I said, fighting a losing battle against confusion. “But the offense is aware of this preoccupation and may not let the runner run for fear of an oncoming pitch-out. Correct?”
“Yeah,” Nicole replied, “but they also know the defense knows that the offense is well aware of the defense’s awareness.”
“I am certain that goes without saying.”
“Sometimes, what can happen,” Kern added, “is that a pitch-out gets called, but the runner isn’t going. So, figuring they’re not going to call two pitch-outs in a row, they’ll send the runner on the very next pitch.”
“But the defense is thinking this way as well,” I offered, “so they order another pitch-out.”
“But,” Nicole added, “the offense might be one step ahead of the defense and not give the runner the green light, and suddenly the batter is ahead in the count two balls and no strikes.”
“Then, it gets real complicated,” Kern said.
“You guys are making me fucking dizzy,” Henry snorted. “Beer man!”
The pitcher finally threw toward the plate, but there was no pitch-out. Apparently, the hit-and-run had been summoned forth, but it proved disastrous as the batter hit a line drive right at the second baseman who threw back to first base to record an out against the runner. After a lengthy explanation, Nicole said this was a double play.
Perhaps, it might be time to reread the works of Miss Austen.
After an uneventful first inning, where more was happening than would appear to the uninitiated, the Muskies drew first blood, scoring on a home run hit high into the darkening Madison sky.
“Must’ve hurt his hands,” Kern said, pulling his leather closer to his body. He gripped the material of my shirt between his thumb and forefinger. “Aren’t you cold?”
Unlike my companions who were well bundled or the other fans who wrapped themselves in blankets as the night’s cold settled in, I wore merely a button-down shirt under my leather jacket. It had been warm that afternoon, and I had no need to put on heavier clothing. Now, my attire appeared suspicious.
“I am quite comfortable,” I replied. “I am well accustomed to the cold.”
The Muskies added another couple of runs, but saw their undaunted opponent match their tally and exceed it as the game reached the halfway point, the milestone marked by a team of fit young men and women who, amidst cheers, sprinted onto the infield and smoothed the earth with thick, weighted canvas sheets which they dragged behind them. Once their task was completed, the groomers turned toward the bleachers and bowed before running off the field.
More ritual: Before resuming play, the voice from above announced it was time for something called “the bat race”.
“Check this out,” Nicole said laughing.
Two portly men stood near the home team’s shelter, each holding a bat upright against the grass. When the signal was given, the men ran in tight, rapid circles around the bats they still held.
“Kern, didn’t you do this once?” Nicole asked.
“I got hosed,” Kern replied. “I played it smart, going around the bat slow enough not to get too dizzy, and there I was, clear-headed, running for the gold, but they made me go back and run one more circle. I made ten circles, I know I did, but they said it was only nine, the fuckers.”
“We’ll put it on your fucking headstone,” Henry said. “‘It was ten circles, not nine. I got hosed.’”
One gentleman completed his ten circles, dropped the bat and was ready to run ahead to the goal to win the contest. He took one step, stumbled and fell to the turf. Carpe diem! The other man speeded up, dropped the bat and prepared to rush forward as though to grab the Holy Grail. He stumbled, fought hard to steady himself, then wobbled sideways and fell into the shelter. The first man finally rose and trotted gingerly to the finish line to win his prize.
The hundreds of fans laughed loudly. Leon rose and gestured broadly with his arms, beckoning the fans to give this valiant duo a standing ovation. Before the game resumed, the announcer offered a few veiled, but choice words about safety. “Parents, watch your children. Everyone, use the buddy system. And do not go into the parking lot by yourself after the game.”
Only a couple of families had brought their offspring, most likely because the children had to get up for school the next day. The youths had been climbing all over the steel bleachers until the announcement. Parents then pulled their children close.
“Christ,” Henry said, rising, “I’m hungry.”
“Brat run?” Kern asked.
“Yeah, you guys want anything?”
Nicole reached across me to hand Henry a five-dollar note, her breasts gently brushing against my arm. “Can you get me a brat with sauerkraut and mustard?”
“Ditto for me,” Kern added, “but make it too. And I want ketchup also.”
Henry took the bills and made a sour face. “Ketchup? Ketchup? What kind of maniac puts ketchup on a brat?”
Kern sneered at his fellow driver. “Bud Selig puts ketchup on his hot dogs. If it’s good enough for the owner of the Brewers, it’s good enough for me.”
Henry snorted loudly and left to run his errand without another word. The next half inning had expired before he returned with his fleshy bounty and a fresh cup of beer.
Kern took a bite of his bratwurst and smiled broadly. “Nothing like a brat at the ballpark.” He shoved the sausage in my face. “Want a bite, Count? It’s real good.”
I said no thank you, suddenly feeling nauseous. My well-practiced mental discipline had allowed me to filter out the sensory overload of this tightly packed mass of humanity, but suddenly it all came crashing inward. The sickening stench of charred animal flesh clashed violently with the sweet scent of sweat and living skin. And my eardrums seemed on the verge of rupturing from the suddenly intolerable symphony of clapping thunder as the thump, thump, thumping of several hundred hearts, loudly pumping sweet nectar through all those bodies, all beat as
one.
I caught Nicole looking at me. “You look flushed,” she whispered.
I nodded and excused myself, departing to get some air. Loitering in the spacious area behind the bleachers, between a concession stand and the water closets, I listened to my own labored breathing in an effort to regain my composure.
Soon, my breathing slowed, allowing me to relax, then the thumping echoed inside my skull once again, not the hammering of all those singing hearts, but instead the distinct beating of two hearts from within the men’s water closet a mere few feet away.
I stepped inside and stood in front of a urinal, two urinals away from a man who was fortunately too oblivious to notice what I was not doing.
“Hey, Sven,” the man said over his shoulder, zipping his trousers and stepping away from the urinal. “You pinch off that loaf yet?”
The man answered with the rapid staccato of violently passed gas. “In a fuckin’ minute,” he replied.
“I’m leaving,” the first man said. “You better hurry up if you want a buddy. You heard the man. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
The fellow inside the stall laughed loudly between more passed gas. “Whatever. Catch you back out there.”
The other man laughed then departed. More loud passed gas, silence, then the fellow inside the stall groaned loudly. A large, thick plop followed, as if an exceedingly heavy object had just fallen into the toilet bowl.
Just the two of us. No other heartbeats nearby.
Suddenly, the fellow was looking up from his seat, trousers down at his ankles. Before he knew what was happening, he knew not what was happening to him, knew nothing at all, as if he had fallen into a waking dream, not knowing, not even wondering what was making that queer sucking sound.
“Feeling better?” Nicole asked when I had returned to my seat.
“Yes. I just needed some air.”
“Well, you look better.” She smiled and moved a bit closer to me, her breath hot against my face. She whispered in my ear. “Your cheeks look nice and rosy, and I’ll bet the farm it’s not from this brisk early spring weather.”
I simply nodded, savoring the warmth of her body, finding her ear with my mouth, the soft scent of her long hair washing into my nostrils. “A kind fellow I met in the lavatory,” I whispered. “Kind and charitable. With no pain, no fear and no knowledge. And not even a pint short.”
Nicole snuggled closer, not saying a single word.
More ritual: By the seventh inning, the visiting team had opened their lead to four scores, but the announcer was undaunted as he enthusiastically announced that it was time for “the seventh inning stretch.”
The fans rose in unison and stretched. Leon turned and shouted, “Sing!” as he exhorted the crowd, waving his arms to and fro, just as a drunken conductor might. A recorded voice sang over the loudspeaker, and the crowd happily joined in: “Take me out to the ball game / Take me out with the crowd / Buy me some peanuts and Crackerjack / I don’t care if I never come back / So, it’s root, root, root for the Muskies / If they don’t win it’s a shame / ’Cuz it’s one, two, three strikes yer out / At the old ball game.”
The fans applauded wildly after shouting and punching fists into the air one, two, three, then remained standing and sang another song, one I knew—“Roll Out The Barrel.” Perhaps they sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” at every park in the country, but “Roll Out The Barrel” had to be peculiar to Wisconsin . And why not? All these Germans, all that beer and bratwurst. The only thing missing was a polka band, and here they were, nearly everyone paired up, dancing the polka right in the stands.
When the Muskies’ last chance arrived in the bottom of the ninth, they had cut the four run deficit in half and had put runners at every base, but after a strike-out and a short fly ball caught within the infield, they were truly down to their last chance.
The situation seemed bleak, but these good Christian pagans held steadfast to their faith in their Muskies. Taking Leon ’s example, everyone rose to their feet and chanted in lockstep rhythm, “Let’s go fish! Let’s go fish!” Hundreds of hands clapped together, emulating the vicious muskie maw, calling forth the spirit of their team’s patron totem.
“C’mon,” Kern said. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes. Baby needs a new pair of shoes!”
“Little bingo here,” Nicole said. “Little bingo.”
I turned toward my instructor. “Bingo? What is that?”
She looked at me blankly. Suddenly, a loud crack rang out, followed by a gasp throughout the crowd. My head turned toward the sound, seeing several fans duck as the hard line drive flew at us, directly at Nicole’s head.
At the last moment, I reached out and grabbed the ball in mid-flight, the impact sharp and ringing, but the ball’s momentum halted, the small spheroid held safely within my tightly closed fingers. I casually handed the ball to Nicole.
“Thanks,” she said, a high degree of astonishment in her voice. “Doesn’t your hand hurt? That was a real screamer.”
I shook my head. Kern and Henry patted me on the back. Leon stared directly at me, his expression shocked, then dissolving into a smile as he flashed a thumbs-up at me.
“Okay, it’s three balls and two strikes,” Nicole said a few pitches later. She rolled the ball nervously in her hands. “Unless the batter fouls the ball off, the game ends right here. A hit’ll score three runs for sure because we’ve got faster runners on base, and they’ll be moving with the pitch.”
“Let’s go fish! Let’s go fish! Let’s go fish!”
Crack! A line drive to the left side of the infield. The third baseman leaped, missing the ball by inches. The shortstop lunged, stretched out as far as his limbs could reach, but barely missed the ball. The fellow in the outfield charged forward.
One run. Two runs.
The fellow on first had nearly reached second when the ball was hit. He steamed toward third. The surrogate leader standing behind third base made a wide windmill motion with his arm. The runner spun around the base without hesitation.
The outfielder scooped up the ball and hurled it toward home plate with all his might.
A few strides from home, the runner leaped hands first, arms fully outstretched and slid in the dirt toward the plate.
The throw bounced once. The catcher, standing in front of the plate, clearly in the runner’s path, caught the ball cleanly four feet in the air, then thrust his glove down hard onto the runner’s back.
The crowd hushed, waited. For a long, pregnant moment, the umpire stared at the tangle of bodies, seeming to wait for the dust to clear.
The umpire crossed his arms in front of his chest, then thrust them sharply apart.
The crowd roared. Henry and Kern jumped up and down. Leon faced the crowd, arms raised in the air, fists pumping. Nicole wrapped her arms around my neck, jumping up and down.
It took a moment to realize that this was victory. Victory! Let the British keep their cricket! Their game has not the passion or drama of this moment.
———
The ride back to the Crystal Corner was quiet; my fellow cabbies were happy, but emotionally drained.
“Coming in?” Kern asked when we arrived at the bar.
“No,” I replied, having had more than enough humanity for one night. “I think I shall just go home and quietly savor this stunning victory.”
“Well, thanks for driving, Count,” Henry said.
Kern and Henry departed, but Nicole lingered. “You enjoyed yourself, Al?”
“Yes, I did. Surprisingly so. Thanks for describing what was happening. I do not think the contest would have made sense without your illuminating narrative.”
She laughed lightly. “You sure do have a funny way of phrasing things.” Nicole paused a moment, looking down at her hands which still held the baseball as if it were a fine jewel. “You sure your hand’s okay?”
I held out my hand for her inspection. No tell-tale signs betrayed the collision. “Immortality,” I said, “means near-ins
tant tissue regeneration. Had the ball struck your hand, or Kern’s, or even Henry’s ample paw, or any mortal at the ballpark, a visit to the hospital would have been necessary to repair crushed bones and smashed blood vessels.”
Nicole gazed at me thoughtfully. “You are completely invulnerable?”
“No.” I shook my head. “The heart. That is one area where Hollywood is not dealing in complete fantasy. A sharpened wooden stake, though crude, would, as you Americans say, do the job, as would a bullet or a knife.”
“The heart.” She bit her lip. “A vulnerable heart. Can a vampire’s heart be broken?”
“Yes.”
After a short, awkward silence, she took my hand, surreptitiously stroking it with a finger. “You know, this was fun. I mean, considering all that happened, it was nice to just have a nice, normal time. And—” She paused demurely. “And, if we could have nice, normal times, well, I’d like to see you again. What do you think?”
What do you think?
Are there four more imposing words in this infernal language?
Chapter 13
A Loaf Of Bread, A Bottle Of Wine and Thou
Christ, you’re such a schmuck. You got this babe who’s got the hots for you, and you didn’t know what to do?
Sir, you are quite the vulgarian. Do not scoff. You talk so loosely, as if you would have known exactly what you would have done if you were me, but you cannot even imagine what it is like to be me.
Fine. Whatever. So, what did you do?
I sought the counsel of a professional, who did put things into a perspective far wider than I would have imagined.
“Maybe you might think about actually taking off your clothes.” That was Jasmine’s ultimate response to my question regarding the situation with Nicole.
Walls. She spoke of walls surrounding me, behind which she said I hid.
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