Bang The Drum Slowly (10 page)

He begun thinking about baseball a lot, which he never done before, always treating it before like it was football or golf, not a thing to think about but only play. He said to me, “Arthur, tell me, if you was on one club and me on another what kind of a book would you keep on me?”

“If I was to keep a book on you,” said I, “I would say to myself, “No need to keep a book on Pearson, for Pearson keeps no book on me.” Because if I was to strike you out on fast balls letter high you would not go back to the bench thinking, “That son of a bitch Wiggen struck me out on fast balls letter high, so I will be on the lookout for the same thing next time.” No, you go back to the bench thinking, “I would like a frank,” or “I see pretty legs in the stands,” and by the time you face me again you have forgot all about the time before. You must remember. Or if you cannot remember you must write it down. The man you are facing is not a golf ball sitting there waiting for you to bash him. He is a human being, and he is thinking, trying to see through your system and trying to hide his own. This is not golf, goddam it, nor football, but human being against human being, and the son of a bitch that wears his thinking hat has got the advantage over the other.”

“I will keep a book,” he said.

“Either in your head,” I said, “or better still on paper for awhile. You already have terrific power. But power plus brains is the difference between nobody and somebody.”

“I must develop brains,” he said.

“Plus confidence,” said I. “Brains and power are nothing without confidence.”

“I never had it much,” he said. “You always had it, Arthur.”

“No sir,” said I, “but I always
looked
like I had it and
sounded
like I had it. Days when I am tired and days when my curve is not breaking it is confidence keeps me going. I hitch up my britches and spit. Crowd in and look fierce, and you will find it works wonders. Watch any of the boys when they hit. Watch Pasquale or Canada. They crowd in like they simply can not wait, though in their shoes they might know it is not their day. Half the pitchers you face are only country boys like yourself, and the other half are only country boys from the city. They are no smarter than you.”

“I never been smart, Arthur.”

“You been dumb on one count only. You left somebody tell you you were dumb. But you are not. You know which way the rivers run, which I myself do not know. Even Holly does not know, and I doubt that Red Traphagen himself can look at a river and tell you which way it runs without throwing a stick in it. All the way down from Minnesota I never knew.”

“I thought you knew,” he said.

“Because I bullshit you,” I said. “You know what is planted in the fields and you know the make of cows. Who in hell on this whole club knows one cow from the other? I could be stranded in the desert with 412 cows and die of thirst and hunger for all I know about a cow. Did Hut Sut Sutter know a cow or a river when he seen one? No, I guess not. And where did he wind up anyhow, this great brain you admire? A goddam professional football player! Would
you
like to be a football player in snow and ice up there in Wisconsin, up and down on the frozen ground? You have already proved yourself smarter than Sutter and smarter than 90,000 kids from coast to coast, every one of them dying to be in your shoes, a New York Mammoth riding the best trains and the best hotels. Why has not Dutch cut you loose if you are so dumb?”

“I do not know,” he said.

“Simply because you are not,” said I. “Dutch will be keeping you and shipping Piney Woods back to Mike. Is Dutch smart?”

“He certainly is,” he said.

“Do you think he would stand for a dumb ballplayer?”

“No.”

“Then if you were a dumb ballplayer would he be standing for you?”

“No,” he said, “I guess not, Arthur, now that you mention it.”

“Did you not buy an Arcturus policy? Did it not prove a smart move?”

“I guess so,” he said.

“Can a dumb person do a smart thing?”

“No sir, Arthur, I guess not.”

“Then wise up,” I said.

“I will keep a book,” he said. “I will have more confidence and brains. You are giving me the old confidence already. You are a smart fellow, Arthur.”

“And tell me one more thing,” I said. “Would a smart fellow like me room with a dumb one? How do people room with people around here? Do you room with your opposite type or do you room 2 by 2 like Jonah in the ark.
Take
Jonah. Who does he room with? He rooms with Perry, color with color, and Washburn rooms with Crane, color with color again, and George with this Spanish boy because language with language, and Pasquale and Vincent together because brother with brother, coaches with coaches, like with like. Goose Williams and Horse Byrd together, stinker with stinker. There is always a reason why 2 fellows are roomies. I never seen it fail yet. So I would not be libel to room with you if you were dumb because you yourself just said how smart I was. Did you not?”

“Yes I did,” he said. “And I meant it,” which he did, for he always thought high of me, thought I was just about the smartest individual going. He always asks me 1,000,000 things like who in hell is some cluck in the newsreel or why in hell did they ever take the 2-deckers off 5th Avenue or what kind of a salary does the President make, and I always told him, whether I knew or not, and he always believed me, dumb as he was.

He caught in about 8 games on the way north with Philly. It was cold. Also the railroad was out on strike, the Louisville & Nashville I think they call it, and twice we took planes. It was all a mess. Standing around in the airport one day Bob Dietz of Philadelphia said to me, “Author, what in the hell was the name of your catcher last night? How come Dutch is using him all of a sudden? He is not a bad ballplayer, only hits too much in the same place all the time,” which meant to me that they were keeping a book on him, which they never done before.

“I do not know,” I said. I did not. I mean, I did not know why Dutch begun using him. I only know that by the time we hit home he went back to using only Jonah, deciding he had all the power he needed. We really had power all spring, Pasquale and Sid and Canada the big guns, especially against right-hand pitching. They hit 3 home runs in a row one night in Savannah, the kind of a thing that makes a pitcher lounge back on the bench with a smile on his face, which I myself done anyhow all spring no matter what, for I was hot, 9 pounds over my weight but faster than ever. The boys on Philly all said the same, saying, “Author, I never seen you so fast. I guess holding out agrees with you.” I felt good in mind and body and said to hell with my weight and never stepped on a scale all spring. The Quartet sung in the shower, and we sung one TV date in Atlanta and picked up a little change. I remember we sung “Come Josephine In My Flying Machine” quite a bit.

I suppose he might of used him more if he wasn’t such a bother, even with the power on, for Dutch can always use more power no matter how much he already got. But Bruce in the lineup was always a bother to Dutch. Dutch sits and shakes and says, “I wonder did the sign get through to Pearson,” and everybody says, “Sure, Dutch,” but maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. The sign goes from the dugout to Perry or Coker and they then flash it home, but Bruce is not always sure where they are coming from, or when, and he often crouched there looking at Coker for his sign when it was coming from Perry, or the other way around, now one and then the other, or Perry might flash a phony sign, or Coker the same, to keep the opposition from swiping it, though what it sometimes amounts to is Bruce himself is the only person fooled. He is too ashamed to call time or come out for a conference, and he sometimes flashes the first sign he sees, and there is hell to pay afterwards, Dutch saying, “How come a curve ball to Williger? He
eats
curves.”

“Pearson signed for a curve,” says the pitcher.

“You signed for a curve?” says Dutch.

“Yes sir,” says Bruce. “I must of missed my sign.”

“I seen Roguski flashing it to you as plain as the nose on your face,” says Dutch.

“I was looking at Simpson.”

“Why?” says Dutch. “Is he more beautiful to look at? Was it not an odd-number inning?”

“Yes sir,” says Bruce, “but I thought it was an even-number inning.”

“What in hell do you think they build scoreboards for?” says Dutch. “Count by odds.”

“1, 3, 5, 7, 9,” says Bruce.

It never happened when I was pitching, for I picked up the sign myself off the bench, or off Coker or Perry, and I talked some of the pitchers into doing the same. But you can not ask a pitcher to be looking 4 ways for their sign. They have got enough to think about without protecting their catcher. Dutch looked at me funny a couple times, staring at me, his face saying, “Author, what is the secret locked in your head?”

But then again Bruce had good days. In Atlanta he hit a home run one night off a right-hand pitcher name of Hrabak, now with Detroit, that probably went 475 feet in the air. It was a cold night, not much of a crowd, and you heard it go “Ping!” in the street beyond, and hit left-handers, too, which Jonah Brooks don’t even hit as much as he hits right-handers, which is hardly any to begin with, and begun hitting the same boys over again, even though Philly kept a book on him now, leaning in more, his jaw working, saying over and over to himself, “This son of a bitch is only a country boy like me, or else a country boy from the city,” looking fiercer, a big chew in his cheek and his bat gripped tight, though later Pasquale told him loosen up, and a smart thing, too.

One day in Knoxville against Philly he seen how they played him deep down the left side, and he bunted, probably the first time in his life he ever hit not only with his bat but also with his head, and he beat it out easy. Philly never played him too deep any more after that, and more than one hit he blasted through third that the third baseman might of handled if he been deeper but was afraid to play too deep for fear Bruce would bunt again. It did not need a genius to think this up, but for Bruce it was unusual, and maybe Dutch said to himself, “Is it possible that Pearson is waking up at last from his sleep of years?” I don’t know. I mean I don’t know if that is what Dutch said or not. All I know is this kind of a thing probably kept him from getting too goddam upset over keeping Bruce. He never jumped up in the air and kicked his heels, I suppose, nor ever said a good word to Bruce, nor ever spoke to him when he seen him around. But he carried him along. To him Bruce was a spare part rattling in the trunk that you hardly even remember is there between looks.

It was very cold up towards New York. We played one exhibition in Philly, though it was not on the schedule, and the boys all told me bring it up at the winter meetings, and I said I would, for an open date is supposed to be an open date, and I will, too, if I ever get to the winter meetings. But I must finish this cockeyed book first. I swore up and down to myself I would finish it or die trying, though to tell you the truth it is impossible to write around the house between the baby and the telephone ringing. It rings a lot these days, ringing all winter after a good year, and what I wind up doing is writing at night, and if the baby cries I snuggle her in bed with Holly, and she feeds her, and I go back and write some more, or sometimes write with one hand and the baby in the other until she dozes forward and I slide her back in the sack. Luckily I am a fast writer. Also, I do my
own
writing, though I been getting calls ever since October 7th from writers saying, “Author, why not go and relax somewheres and leave me polish off your book for you?” and sometimes the temptation gets me down. But they would louse it up, not meaning to but only pounding it out between the half of a football game or on the corner of a bar, and it must not be loused like that.

We hit Philly on a Friday morning, Good Friday, and pulled out that night. I pitched 7 innings, my last turn before the Opener. Canada played first base because Sid went home for the beginning of Passover, and Reed McGonigle took over in center field, joining us not 2 hours before game time, still in his army suit but officially sprung. Everybody was glad to see him, Dutch especially, for it meant we could carry 26, and he was in shape, for he played ball all spring, and Dutch started him, and Piney Woods was cut loose the same day, headed back to the QC Cowboys with his airplane ticket sticking up out of his pocket and stopping at my locker the last thing and saying, “Author, give Coker back the other 20,” and I said I would, though actually Coker never give it to me, and I said, “Piney, I have a feeling you will be up in a year or 2 as soon as Mike learns you to keep your mind on business and not on motorcycles and such foolishness as that.”

“I love motorcycles,” he said.

“You are 19,” I said. “You will get over it,” and he stood up and looked brave and said, “Well, maybe somebody will drop dead soon and open up a slot for me.”

“Leave us hope so,” I said, and he went out the door.

Jonah caught, and it was a pleasure pitching to him. Now and then I looked out towards the bullpen, and I seen Bruce there, and I thought how impossible it was, though sometimes I shook my mind off it, saying, “Well, Bruce now and all the rest of us later, so what the hell difference does it really make?” though I could never really convince myself any way you look at it. Dying old is in the cards, and you figure on it, and it happens to everybody, and you are willing to swallow it. But why should it happen young to Bruce?

It made me mad. I went my full 7 with never a hitch, and Dutch sat on the bench, leaning back on his hands and smiling. I sweated something awful, still weighing heavy, and this kid fanned me between innings, Diego Roberto or Roberto Diego, whatever his name was, the kid we carried for George. “Mister,” he said, “you pitch tight baseball like hot stuff.” He went back to Cuba when Red come back, for Red can speak Spanish with George. Diego could throw with both hands, though not too hard with either one, and he sometimes threw batting practice. I liked it when he did, for I could hit him.

We wound up the weekend and the spring with 2 with Philly at home, and Sunday night me and Joe sat around about an hour dealing Tegwar without even a nibble. There was too much excitement in the air, the lobby full of 1,000,000 people saying, “Glad to see you back, boys,” and saying they knew it was our year again, and slapping you on the back. Joe was awful put out. I told him forget it, there would be happy times ahead when things settled down, and he said he supposed so. Bruce went up to Katie’s and come back and seen us there and said, “Why not 3-hand Tegwar just between ourself?” and Joe give him a look.