The Fan (17 page)

At the bottom of the mountain, Boucicaut pointed west, away from town. Gil followed almost-forgotten back roads for ten or fifteen minutes, turned down a long, unpaved lane, parked in front of an old farmhouse. Boucicaut went in without knocking. He came back with a man even fatter than he was, shirtless despite the cold. They emptied the trunk, carrying everything inside.

Boucicaut came back alone. “Nice work,” he said, shoving something into Gil’s shirt pocket.

“What’s this?”

“Your share,” said Boucicaut. “Not too rich to turn down a hundred bucks, are you?”

Gil wasn’t.

“And something else,” said Boucicaut when they were back on the road. “I thought of you as soon as I saw it, old buddy.” He reached into his jacket, flicked on the interior light, held something up for Gil to see: a baseball, in a clear crystal box. A yellowed, autographed baseball, but Gil couldn’t take his eyes off the road long enough to read the name.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“The Babe,” said Boucicaut. “Who else?”

“That must be worth a lot of money.”

“It’s yours.”

Gil wanted to say something like, “I couldn’t do that,” but he was too choked up. Boucicaut set the ball down on the edge of Gil’s seat. It rolled against his thigh and rested there.

Miles went by, with rain pelting down, Boucicaut leaning back, eyes closed, Gil feeling the ball against his leg, thinking, we’re a team. They were almost in town when Boucicaut opened his eyes and said: “Ever see
American Blade
magazine?”

“Sure.”

“Came across a copy today. Some of your dad’s knives were listed in the back.”

“I know.”

“Guy was asking four grand for one of them.”

“They’re collector’s items.”

“That’s where they all went—to collectors?”

“Most of them.”

“How many’ve you got?”

“You’ve seen it.”

“Just the one? How did that happen?”

“It happened.”

Gil drove back through town, into the woods, up the lane that led to Boucicaut’s trailer. The wind died down; all at once the windshield wipers were squeaking on dry glass.

They parked, got out of the car, Gil taking the ball. “Wait a sec,” Boucicaut said. He went into the trailer alone. The outside lights flashed on, illuminating the yard. When Boucicaut came back he had the baseball gloves in his hand. “Feelin’ loose?” he said.

For a moment, Gil couldn’t speak. A thrill went through him, shooting down his spine, along his arms and legs, up the back of his neck, into his face.

“Thought we’d play a little catch,” said Boucicaut. “How’s the old arm?”

“Best it’s ever been.”

Boucicaut laughed, donned the mitt, motioned for the ball.

“We’re going to use this?”

“What it’s for, ain’t it?” replied Boucicaut. Gil handed him the ball. Boucicaut put it in the fielder’s glove and handed it back. Then he walked to the edge of the yard, turned, got down in his crouch. His legs must have been very strong, Gil thought, because he did it quite easily, despite all that weight.

“Let’s see what you got,” Boucicaut said, pounding his mitt.

The thrill washed through Gil again. He rubbed the ball in his hands, felt the softness of the old, oiled cowhide, saw the signature in the yellow glow of the outside light: Babe Ruth. He slid his left hand into the glove, gripped the ball across the seams with his right.

“Give me a sign,” he said.

Boucicaut smiled a thin smile and held his index finger along the inside of his thigh. Gil toed an imaginary rubber, went into his windup. It all came back, the slow and easy pivot, left leg coming up, arm sweeping back, nice and loose. He even remembered to point the ball for an instant straight at center field; it felt tiny, his hand huge. He himself felt huge, light, full of possibility. And then he was bringing it all up and forward, bending his back, bearing down, closing his shoulder, snapping his wrist like a whip: perfection. He let go and followed through, left leg whipping around, knuckles almost in the mud. The ball flew in high and blazing.

But too high? And blazing perhaps only for Boucicaut, who got his mitt up oh so slowly, barely managing to tip it. The ball sailed up out of the yellow dome of light and into the woods, crashing softly out of sight.

“Ball one,” said Boucicaut, laughing. Gil didn’t join in. Ball one, maybe, but catchable. He kept the thought to himself.

They got flashlights from the trailer, poked beams of light between the tree trunks.

“Know any of these collectors?” asked Boucicaut, kicking at a soggy mound of leaves.

“What collectors?”

“Knife collectors.”

“A few.”

“How many knives have they got, guys like that?”

“Of my old man’s? I know one who’s got twenty at least. And hundreds of knives all together—Randalls, Scagels, Morseths.”

“Hundreds? At four grand apiece?”

“They’re not all worth that.”

“But some?”

“Some.”

“They must keep them at the bank or something, right?”

“Not the ones I know,” said Gil, thinking of Mr. Hale, with his velvet-lined drawers; and his safe, behind the photograph of Mrs. Hale and her fencing team.

They searched the woods for twenty minutes or so. No ball.

Boucicaut whistled. The black mongrel bounded out of the shadows. “Find the ball, Nig,” said Boucicaut.

But Nig couldn’t find it either.

“Goddamn it,” said Gil. Nig stiffened.

“It was probably a fake,” Boucicaut said. “Let’s get something to drink.”

A good idea. Gil’s elbow was starting to hurt. “We’ll find it in the morning,” he said.

“Sure, Gilly.”

B
obby Rayburn said: “Whenever I get headache pain, I just knock it out of the park with extra-strength Moprin.”

“Fantastic, Bobby,” came a voice from the other side of the bright lights, “DeNiro couldn’t have done it any better. And I worked with him when he was in his prime. Personally. So on this one let’s just try holding the product up the weensiest bit higher. Right about thereabouts. Absolument perfecto. Ready, everybody?”

“Rolling.”

“Speed.”

“Take nine.”

“Anytime you want, Bobby.”

Bobby said: “Whenever I get headache pain, I just knock it out of the park with new extra-strength Moprin.”

“Oscar time, folks. That’s a keeper if I ever … 
new?
He said new? So? Where the hell doesn’t it say new? Stronger that way if you want my hum—”

Whispers.

“All right, everybody. Bobby. The account folks here say we’ve got to lose the
new
for some reason, FDA blah blah blah, although personally I like it better and think they should be grateful for your creativity, end of bracket, so this time let’s try it sans new, and with the product up nice and high where the art director likes it.”

“Sans new?” said Bobby.

“They don’t want you to say new,” said Wald, also invisible behind the lights.

“I said new?”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Wald. I’ll handle this. Everything’s okay, Bobby. Better than okay. I loved it. We all loved it. But this time let’s just stick to what’s on that tedious old screen.”

“Can he see it from there?”

“Can you see the screen, Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“What a question, with his eyesight. In hindsight. All right, now. In fact, it’s a gas. Ready, everybody?”

“Rolling.”

“Speed.”

“Take ten.”

Bobby said: “Whenever I get headache pain, I just knock it out of the tarp with extra-strength Moprin.”

Silence.

“Tarp?”

“They do that shit for a living?” said Bobby when it was over, and he and Wald were on the plane.

“A good living,” said Wald.

“I hate it,” Bobby said. He hated the way they treated him like an idiot, hated New York, hated planes. He liked only that it was an off-day. Still learning: today he had learned that off-days were good when you were batting .147 at the beginning of June.

“How do you feel about the four hundred grand?” asked Wald.

“Is that what I’m getting?”

“Less my percentage.”

Bobby shrugged. “Easiest money I ever made.”

“Is it?” said Wald.

The flight attendant appeared. “More champagne, Mr. Wald?”

Wald had more champagne. Bobby had a Coke: no booze until he shook the slump.

“What did you mean by that?” said Bobby.

“By what?”

“When you said, ‘is it?’ ”

“Just making conversation, Bobby.”

The plane landed. They hadn’t even reached the end of the covered ramp before Wald’s phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket, said, “Yes,” listened, said, “I’ll get back to you,” clicked off.

“Interesting,” he said.

Bobby looked beyond the gate for Val. She was supposed to meet him.

“That was Jewel Stern,” Wald said.

“Who?”

“Radio reporter. You met her down in spring training.”

Bobby tried to remember.

“In her forties. Attractive. She wants to do a piece on you for the
New York Times Magazine.
”

Bobby spotted Val, hurrying in with a ponytailed man. “You’re telling her to forget it, right?”

“Might not hurt to meet her,” Wald said.

“Why, for Christ’s sake?”

“The Sunday magazine. A lot of important people read it.”

“So what?”

Val was coming forward, a big smile on her face.

Wald shrugged. “Baseball’s not forever, Bobby.”

“What does that mean?”

Val threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re back, Bobby.” He’d only been gone for the day. “I want you to meet Philip.” The ponytailed man stepped forward. “Philip’s got the most exciting ideas.”

“About what?” Bobby said, shaking hands.

Philip opened his mouth to explain, but Val beat him to it: “The kitchen, Bobby.”

“What kitchen?”

“Our new kitchen, of course. Philip has a whole new approach. He’s an architect, Bobby. Famous.”

“What’s wrong with it the way it is?” Not that Bobby liked the kitchen, particularly, but he knew the fault must be his. How could it be otherwise with its terra-cotta floor, granite countertops, stained-glass windows from a church in some town he’d vaguely heard of?

A kid moved toward them, pencil and paper in hand. “Why don’t we talk about it over dinner?” Val said.

“That sounds perfect,” said Philip. “How about Fellini’s?”

“Have you ever been hypnotized?” the sports psychologist asked Bobby.

“No.”

“It can be very useful in imaging therapy.”

“Therapy?” said Bobby.

“Imaging training,” said the sports psychologist. “A kind of workout. No abracadabra, no Bela Lugosi business. Nothing but science, applied to the mind.”

“What do I do?”

“I just want you to relax, deeply. Deeply, deeply, deeply.” The sports psychologist’s voice deepened and softened with each repetition of the word. “Release the tension from the core of every muscle, from the marrow of every bone, from the nucleus of every brain cell.” Long pause. “If you feel inclined, turn your gaze to the painting on the wall.”

“With the cows?”

“And the farmhouse. Perhaps you’d like to watch the glow of the hearth fire, just visible through that window beside the deep-crimson shutter.”

Pause, perhaps long, perhaps not.

“Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to lie down on the couch now. Yes. Like that, on your back. Comfy?”

“Yes.”

“Can you still see the farmhouse?”

“Yes.”

“And the glow of the fire?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to relax, Bobby, to deeply, deeply relax. Releasing tension. Relaxing.” Pause. “How is your rib cage, Bobby?”

“Fine.”

“No pain?”

“No.”

“No discomfort?”

“No.”

“Good. I want you to relax all the muscles around the rib cage, Bobby, releasing tension from all around the area where it used to hurt. Relax, relax, relax. Let go, let go, let go.”

Bobby sighed.

“Now, Bobby, now that you’re so deeply relaxed, do you think you could tell me what it is you’re afraid of?”

Pause.

“Or worried about?”

Pause.

“Or concerned about?”

“Something happening to Sean. I’m afraid of something happening to Sean.”

“Who is Sean?”

“My son.”

“Is he sick?”

“No—”

“Is—”

“—not to my knowledge.”

“Is there anything wrong with him?”

“No.”

“I see.” Long pause. “What I really meant to ask was what are you afraid of in baseball?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you afraid of getting hit with the ball?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid you’re not going to be able to perform as well as you have in the past?” Long pause.

“Are you afraid that you will have difficulty shutting out the distractions of off-field aspects of your life?”

“No.”

“Are you worried, or concerned, that in any way your new
contract will make it harder—not hard, simply harder—to achieve what you’ve achieved in past seasons?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still looking at the glow of the fire in the window by the crimson-colored shutter of the little farmhouse?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to picture something, Bobby, an object, to see this object so strongly that everything else—the glow of the fire, the crimson shutter—vanishes. Everything else vanishes, Bobby. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now I’m going to tell you what it is I want you to see. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“The object is a baseball, Bobby. A perfect white baseball with perfectly even red-stitched seams. Can you see it, Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“See it and only it?”

“Like a coffee-table book.”

“I’m sorry?”

“As clear as those pictures in a coffee-table book.”

“Very good. What is the ball doing, Bobby?”

“Starting to spin.” Pause. “It’s a slider. Outside corner. Maybe low.” Pause. “Maybe not.”

“Could you hit it?”

“Don’t know.”

“I want you to hit it, Bobby. I want you to see that slider all the way, and do all the things you have to do to hit it. I want you to hit it on the sweet spot of the bat, and then I want you to feel the feeling of doing it.”