For Love of the Game (13 page)

Chapel squinted.

Fella called Sparky something. Fast. Chapel said: “Watch the bunt. He may bunt.”

“Right. What you gonna do?”

“Sidearm. Easier on the arm. And keep the ball rising.”

First pitch worked. He tried to bunt, popped it foul.

Second pitch got away: wild pitch, sailed over Gus’s head to the screen. Gus came out to calm him.

“Jeez, Chappie, don’t hit nobody. Don’t give ’em the goddam base. You okay?” He looked toward Maxwell. No relief, goddammit. Not now of all times. Maxwell made no move. Thanks, Max. Gus said: “Sidearm curve, again, again. Okay? Okay.”

He went back, crouched. The curve did not break well, almost caught Sparky in the head. That was close. But … go back now to the fastball. He knows you’re losin’ control, he’ll be tense and won’t dig in. Chapel went back to all the fastball that was left. It worked. Strike two. Hard to bunt now, he’ll be swinging now.

Chapel threw the fastball past him, struck him out.

The crowd all over the stadium was standing now. Chapel’s right arm was beginning to send stabs of intense pain. A little while, just a little while … but if this next guy gets on … don’t let him.

How?

Nothing came now, no plan.

Hitter was McClendon. Good man.

Last hitter.

I hope to God.

I got him last time … with the sinker. He won’t hit first pitch … how can you tell now … and hates the sinker. So. First pitch: fastball.

The pitch hit the ground in front of the plate. Gus came out, talked. Chapel went back to the fastball. Untouched. Strike one.

The sinker.

Untouched.

Strike two.

Noise beginning around him.

One more time.

Curve broke outside. A ball.

That’s a rare thing.

Can’t even walk him.

Chapel realized he had given everything he had, was close to collapse. Vision fading. Oh, hell, just one more pitch.

There was nothing much there. He threw the sinker, but it didn’t sink. It just floated on in and McClendon swung and caught it and hit it hard to the right, skipping, skipping, on the ground toward left field, moving for the hole between third and short. Moving fast but not unreachable, not impossible, moving and moving and moving, and there was Christopher sprinting to his right, Manieri to his left, but it went by Manieri and Christopher made the long reach, all this now very slow, very slow, every moment etched in Chapel’s eyes: he saw Christopher glove the ball
going hard to his right, glove it and start to swing round to throw, and McClendon was not a fast runner, not fast at all, and yet the ball was hit very far before Christopher got there so it was going to be very close … and all this took but a long second, two seconds, and seemed eternal and beautiful and unforgettable and magnificent when Christopher fired from a sinking falling dive, fired across the diamond to first base as fast as he had ever thrown, and there at first was a long arm out with the glove open for the ball, reaching, reaching, and McClendon coming, and the ball got there first … and the umpire’s arm went up … and McClendon was there too late, too late, and the game was over and it was done, it was done, and Chapel closed his eyes to the explosion that came. A moment later he was being carried in the air. Someone pressed a ball into his hand.

The ball
.

To the victor
…

L
ATE THAT NIGHT
, very close to midnight, Chapel came back to the hotel. He came back in a car driven by Joe Birch, and Joe was so drunk he insisted on driving the car and it was an interesting drive, possibly the last one of all drives anywhere, up on sidewalks and round and through various shattered places Chapel could not clearly see, and even when they were stopped by the police—which happened several times—that produced another round of congratulations and some awed faces popping in out of the dark, hands extended, and the right arm really did hurt, all the way down to the hand, but it was mainly numbness, not truly the regal, kingly pain which would be there soon, very soon, Chapel knew that with certainty, but had a fine time. Very fine time. The locker room had been very messy and creamy and madhouse with noise. All the ballplayers and newspapermen all trying to take part in “one of the few great moments,” and then the sour moment: the owners
came in through the mess and the crowd; the way was parted for the holy two, who were carrying much champagne, blabbering away messages Chapel could not hear, nor try to, and putting out hands Chapel was polite enough to shake. Chapel did not want to talk and so did not, and that was easy, but even in that place, among all that foaming noise, they, the owners, could tell from Chapel’s eyes that he
knew
, and they did not come within range for long. But they sent in much champagne and so the drinking developed, expanded, blossomed, bloomed, which Chapel did not truly enjoy, because as a pilot he seldom drank at all, but the champagne was
good
. He avoided interviews as best he could. Ross, the TV man, did not show. Chapel knew: he’s off already telling the whole story. Well, he’s got it, and I guess he deserves it, because if I hadn’t known, would I have … ?

So. There is a debt. Yes.

One other thing he wanted to do was shake the hands of the men who’d played out there today. He got to most of them. Some of the Yankees showed up, Joe Birch and the last big man, McClendon, and it got entertaining. The moment had come … and gone … but was locked in there now forever. Much booze, which hit Chapel soon because he was tired, and there was too much in the locker room, too much of being surrounded almost underground, which was not natural to Chapel, who
was at home out in the wide free open country and felt claustrophobia coming on. Then there was Gus by his side, at first shook too much by the reality of it to come near Chapel at all, just sat off by himself, starry-eyed, drinking, but he came at last to get the words into Chapel’s ear: Ross had broken the news of the trade. Chapel digested. News story was spreading—flock of those people would be here very soon, coming for the Word. Chapel decided to move on. He grabbed Gus and took him along, making sure not to lose him. Not now.

So out they went with Joe Birch—in the car he’d won as Most Valuable Player somewhere—and some other people, and they went up to Birch’s apartment getting happily gleefully almost tearfully stoned and they passed through some of the better times telling the funny stories of this wild thing that happened to Joe, back in the old days, and that one to Billy, back in the old days before “all the shit began to hit the fan,” which was a fine old saying from the good old days, and toward the end they were finally beginning to look back on the night just past and see that it was all true, a perfect game, and began to drink to each other as partners in the night together, hard to separate the winners from the losers: it was a day of “Greatness.” “One of the great days, Chappie. One of the days of Greatness. Salud.” And he drank to Chapel, and after that they quieted a bit and began
to feel the emotion of the passing times. Then men put arms around each other—truly an uncommon event, and Chapel couldn’t help remembering Carol’s question: are you gay, Billy Boy?—and wished she was there. Had she seen it? Did she know anything of it, the—God in heaven!—the perfect game? What would she say now … if she knew? I sure hope she knows. I bet she shows tonight. I bet she can’t get in. Hell, nobody knows where I am, if she’s looking … but why should she be looking, stupe? She’s gone. Faretheewell, for I must leave thee, do not let the parting grieve thee, for the time has come when even best of friends must part.… He started automatically to sing that aloud, and they all joined in and so the night began to end. They began to fade away. Chapel went off thinking about Carol, and then about that last inning, and the whole game was already shaping itself in the back of his head like a great book he’d read and would now be there on the shelf to read always, to move you as the great stuff always did, to turn the pages of innings now and for as long as … time went on.

Birch delivered him back to the hotel, along with Gus. Birch hugged him. A dewy moment. They went in the side door and up the back stairs and almost did not make it. They sat together on the stairs and considered each other with deep pity.

Gus: “Poor fella. Bet you’re really shot. How do you feel? Listen, I can’t carry you, s’help me. I’m
smashed. Hit by a shell in the Great War. Can’t hardly breathe. But … heee.” He sat there and began to giggle. Then he began to laugh. He laughed for a long time. Then he finished, wiping tears from his eyes with Kleenex he’d obtained from God knows where, and then helped a stupefied Chapel to his feet and they made it up the stairs to the doorway opening up into Chapel’s hall—only safe way to get into Chapel’s room without people blocking the way, and it had all been set up for them by the hotel, which had arranged to have the door open and a bellhop there to just see him go by and help him, with gratitude, into his own room. He went into the darkness with Gus and plunked down on the bed. First touch of sadness. The day is done. But, ah … this day.

Gus was in a deep chair. He sat there and started to giggle again. Then he guffawed.

“Oh, Christ, I can’t stop thinking.…”

“What you thinking?”

“All my life …” he lifted a fat finger, pointed upward, waggling, “all my bloody life they been tellin’ me … hee hee … they tell me that, quote:
nobody’s perfect. Always remember, nobody’s perfect
.” He collapsed again, leaned down over the chair, and wheezed. “Gotta tell all the gran’-children. Hee. Hell. First, gotta get Grandpa to believe … who would have ever thought.…” The
phone rang. Gus clutched it, said mushily, haughtily: “Whossat? Who? Nah. Absolooly not. Mr. Chapel is at rest and please do not disturb him no more. Got that? No further calls from nobody. Right. Yep. Happy holiday. Same to you. Many of ’em.”

He hung up.

There was one soft light in the room, and in the moments to come the peace began to settle through Chapel’s mind, the silence to grow, the great wide calmness of a happy, weary man on the edge of the deep and splendid sleep not far off now. They talked a bit, but it faded. Done. Gus, slowly, stood up.

“Well. Billy.”

“Yeah. Gus.”

‘Well. I guess I’ll leave you be.” Pause. “You need anything?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Pause. “Jeez, I could sit here all night … don’t want it to end. You know.”

“I know.”

“Well, Billy. Mr. Chapel. Sir. I’ll be movin’ on.” But he did not move. Then he said: “Billy?”

“Yep.”

“Watcha gonna do?”

Chapel said nothing.

Gus: “Shouldn’t ask. Couldn’t help. But … you be here tomorrow? Or … you goin’ home?”

“I think … I’ll go home.”

Gus nodded. “Figures. No point in all them interviews. Well.” He had a small bottle in his hand. He raised it: “Salud,” he said.

Chapel moved to the window, looked out at the night sky. No stars visible. Shame.

Gus: “Well. Guess I won’t see you for a while.”

Chapel turned.

Gus: “No chance I guess … to go to New Zealand?”

Chapel: “Never know.”

“Yep. Keep the faith. My little Bobbie—you remember the lady … she was really lookin’ forward.…”

“Maybe sometime.”

Gus came forward, put out the hand. Chapel took it.

Gus: “Time for me to take off.” Pause. “Got to say one thing. Thanks, Billy.”

Chapel: “Gus. Thank
you
.”

Gus held the hand.

“Billy? Next year … they’ll offer the moon. You think you’re ever comin’ back?”

Chapel moved his left hand up, held the muscle of the right arm. He said: “Gus … I don’t think there’s anything left.”

Gus: “Ah.…”

“I think it’s all gone, Gus. So I think I’m goin’ home.”

“You give it a rest this winter. And next year, you wait’n see.”

“Sure. I’ll do that.”

“So there’s always a chance. I bank on you. Well. Good-bye, Billy. So long. Good night.” He went to the door, opened it, stood for a moment in that strong light. Then he said: “God bless” and was gone.

Chapel remained alone in the dark.

Phone would not ring. Instructions below.

So it’s done.

The day is done.

Rest now. Think no more.

I can’t help it.

Well, go to sleep. Go home. Don’t think of her.

I can’t help that.

“Billy, you don’t need me.”

If she saw it, and we were together now, and I could tell her how it was, lie there in bed sharing it with her, all the moments.…

Day is not done.

He went back to the window, looked up into the black night for a star.

Must be done.

He went to the phone, dialed Carol’s home.

He did not expect an answer. He thought of praying for an answer. Then: her voice:

“Hello.”

“Carol. It’s me.”

“Oh.”

“Hope you don’t mind.”

Silence.

“Won’t take a moment. Just wanted to know if you … knew what happened today.”

“Oh, Billy.”

“You know?”

“Yes. I know.”

‘Well. That’s fine.”

Her voice was strange. She said: “I heard about it. People were turning TV on so I watched. I saw … that ending. Oh, Billy.”

“It was.… Boy.”

“I was.… so proud.”

“Well. Me, too. I.…” Pause.

“I started cheering for you. I wish you’d seen me. Just like high school again. Cheering and screaming. Wish.…”

Silence.

Time to talk. He said: “I got something to tell you.”

She waited.

Chapel: “You said a funny thing today, in the park, and it kept goin’ through my head, through the whole game, while I was pitching. You said I didn’t need you.”

No answer.

Chapel: “I want you to know … honey, I don’t expect anything. I’m not asking for anything. I want you to be happy and do what makes you happy. But before you go, I want you to know … what I’ve never said but I’ve known for … a long time.” Pause. “I love you.”

Long pause. Nothing but silence.

Chapel: “I have for a long time. You’re the only girl I ever did … fall in love with. I think you’re the only one I ever will. You were the best thing that ever.… And I will miss … but I wanted you to know. Because, boy, I’m in … I’m just sitting here in the dark, alone, and I had to tell you. Before I go.”