For Love of the Game (7 page)

“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 both 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.

Robinson was ready: cautious, wary, watchful. Chapel began to hum silently: “Oh where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy.” Robby’s never been a problem. Shortens up in the early innings—yes, he is now—hands move up the bat a trifle—hopes to squeak one through, get on base, short fly. Knows that ’gainst the fastball that will not do. Yes. Harder the better. Chapel smiled very slightly, cocked the arm, kicked the leg high, the fast one. Zip. Strike one. Robinson backed off.
Chapel pocketed the smile. Now a bit faster. Pops used to call this one “Ole Smokey.” This one was fast. All covered with snow. He blazed. Strike two. If that ever hits a man—Pops put his hat down over his heart, soulful, sad: “You hit him with that one, Billy, poor boy’ll soon be in his grave, all covered with snow.”

“Oh where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy.…”

Gus was yelling: “Way to go, Chappie, way to go!”

Now. Robinson will expect it … outside. He’s stepping in. Thinks I’ll waste it. But doesn’t know. Not for sure. Ah. No waste today. Throw it right by.

Chapel armed again and threw the third fast ball right by Robinson, who did not move, was not expecting it. Strike three in three pitches. Ah. A vague sound: Robinson eyeing him, lips moving as he walked away. In his motion: anger. Get you later, alligator. Always a next time. After’while, crocodile.

Next hitter: Babe Parrilli. Beefy Babe. Babe leans a bit forward, cocks the bat, but … he’s seen Old Smokey … a mite nervous today. Not truly set. Throw the curve right at him … so it’ll break down and in. He did: Parrilli flinched back: strike one.

“I’m goin’ away for to leave you, might not come back any more more more, but if I ever more see your face again, there’s honey on that far distant,
di-istant shor-or-ore, honey, on that far distant shore.” Kingston Trio. Long time ago.

Now: fire away. He threw hard. Strike two. Right down the alley. Parrilli backed off to tap at his shoes. He hadn’t expected it. Next pitch, Parrilli thinks, will be the smoker again. This guy is throwin’ nothin’ but strikes. Set yourself. Parrilli, a gutsy man, dug in to hit. Chapel threw the sinker, it fell off the end of the table. Parrilli missed by six inches. Strike three.

Chapel backed off the mound, feeling a healthy glow. All working well. It’s there today, buddy. Please God. For a while at least. One more time …

The third hitter was Jed Murphy. Along with Birch he was Yankee power. Chapel decided: total surprise. Sidearm fastball. Chapel never did that this early. Murphy backed away, startled. Strike one. Seven strikes in a row. Rather unusual. Yankee bench screaming: Chapel glanced that way: they were standing up. Ready to fight. Okay. He nodded, touched his cap. Chapel leaned all the way back, threw Old Smokey. Murphy never saw it. Strike two. The umpire, Meyers, was looking out toward Chapel, then shook his head. Quite an inning. Gus yelled: “Jesus, Billy! Jesus!” He crouched, then yelled again: “Nobody here but you and me, Billy, throw one more and let’s go sit down.”

Murphy knew the fastball was coming again, set himself, and Chapel threw the riser, the one that
when held right in the fingers sometimes suddenly started to rise and float away and Murphy, set for one straight down the tube, went for it and just got a touch, popped it foul, and Gus wandered back, tucked it in, and the inning was done. In nine pitches. Should have been three strikeouts. Well. Nobody’s perfect. They got only a foul. Pleasant way to start the day. Bit like the old days.…

“She’ll be comin’ round the mountain when she comes.…”

Chapel wandered back to the bench listening to nothing, thinking of nothing, resting the brain for a long moment. A good beginning. Power in the arm. He sat down in his normal place—the empty spot near the end of the bench. He sat alone, as always. Gus sat nearby, but Chapel did not talk. He sat, crouched far back, crossed his legs, tucked his cap down over his eyes … closed the eyes, floated off into the comforting dark, at rest, at rest, and he saw.…

… Carol. The blond hair. Down to the shoulders. Four years past, at the party, standing far across the room and still clearly visible, face lovely and weary and something dark in her eyes, seen from a long way away, but God in heaven, what a lovely thing. Movies? She wore something long and blue, bare down to the breasts, full round breasts,
tired
, she was talking to two expensive-looking men she apparently did not like. There was that girl Chapel was talking to at the time—
dark-haired—who? No memory at all. Then—Carol appeared, facing him. Had come to see him. Curious. Weary eyes. He thought: drunk? She said, first words:

“You the Man of Distinction?”

“The which?”

“You look like that man in the ad. Man of Distinction. Did you pose for that ad? No you didn’t. Nope. Who are you? Sir? If I may be so bold?”

“I’m a ballplayer.”

She smiled. Mind beyond those eyes a total mystery. “A ballplayer? Dirty joke. Oh. ’Scuse me.” Hand to her mouth, eyes with a glow. “That’s right. You’re the fella that throws real baseballs. The hero lass week. I saw that game.” Eyes widened. Not really so drunk—or was she? “You were very good.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Western. Did that on purpose. Country boy. In New Yawk City. Charmin’, thass me.

She said: “You struck out those three guys … one right after the other. With the bases loaded. That was … somethin’. I want to drink to you. Sir.”

She was referring to that inning in the All-Star Game. He appreciated the fact that a girl as pretty as this one, however smashed she was, knew all this. She was saying, New Yorkerish:

“How much of that was luck? Truly?”

“Probably all of it.”

Then she said suddenly: “Sorry. I don’t mean … 
to be rude.” Then she giggled, and switched right back. “On t’other hand. Ballplayers. Good pun there. I’ve heard a lot … tell me the truth. Are you gay?”

“Gay? Me?” He grinned. “Oh. You must have been readin’ things. Or did you hear somethin’.…”

“Well, I know there’s a lot of gay guys playing ball”—giggle—“nowadays. Is getting to be the vogue. Or somethin’. So they say. Would you mind tellin’ me? You know those fellas?”

“Nope. Honest.”

“And you’re not gay yourself?”

“Nope.”

“But you fellas wander round nude all the time in the locker room. Does something like that … interest you?”

Billy started to grin. Then he had to laugh. He’d never been asked that sort of thing before, not by anyone anywhere, and she was from another world, and something in her face changed, and she looked at him with a sudden genuine smile, the haze in her eyes beginning to clear, something different there, and he said: “Hell. No. Nope. Uh-uh.”

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

“A walk? Away from here?”

“I’d like to talk to you.” She said that in an odd, intense way, vague glint in her eyes he did not understand. She said: “You’re not married.”

“No.”

“I was married,” she said. “Now it’s over. I’m feeling the effects. Fallout. Would you mind if I talked? I can talk to you. God help me. If I’m wrong. Are you a … rebound?”

“A what?”

“Rebounds are people you go with when you’ve lost your love. True love. Shit. I didn’t love … oh yes I did. But that was a long time ago. Would you walk?” She put a hand on his arm. First sign of great sadness.
Now
he saw. She said: “Please. Want to go out and … on the street … just talk. Need to clear a messy brain. Can we go? Do you mind? I don’t mean to bed. I mean … can we find a place where I can just sit down and let it out?”

They left, went to a quiet bar. She told him of the ten years with that very wealthy lying conniving greedy vicious heartless lovable hatable son of a bitch who turned out in the long run to be very lucky that he never met Billy Chapel, who would have … “dusted him” … never marry again, she said, never never. You haven’t ever married? Oh, Billy Chapel, you’re either very lucky or very wise—and Chapel said: “Neither. I’m a kid. A ballplayer. I’ll grow up one of these days. But not yet, not yet.…”

Tap on the shoulder: Gus.