The rookie started it.
Kid Martin picked up an easy two-hopper to third and fired the ball into the nineteenth row behind first base. After the throw, Kid bent over with his hands on his knees. Flip Horgan gripped the new ball, walked off the mound, played with the rosin bag, and climbed back up the hill, but Martin still stood halfway between the hot corner and home, so Flip went over, slapping the ball into his glove as he walked. “Shake it off, Kid. Two ducks are down already, and Frenchie’s comin’ up. I own him.”
“Aleigh broke up with me.” Kid talked to the dirt.
“What?”
“Aleigh. My high school sweetheart. She says it’s over. She’s gets lonely when I’m on the road. So it’s over.” Kid sniffled and wiped his eye with his glove, which put a splotch of dirt on his left cheek.
Flip spit. He put his gloved hand on Kid’s shoulder and scratched the three-day growth of whiskers that Flip felt made him an intimidating presence on the mound. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s up?” Whitey jogged in from short. “We’ll get ‘em out. We’re up 6-0. We’ll get the third…”
“Let’s play ball out there,” yelled a fan in the front row. She wore a Cardinal’s cap and had a redbird painted on each cheek. “No wonder games take so long.”
“Kid lost his girl,” Flip said. “She wants a nine-to-five guy who’ll be home for supper every night.”
“Oh,” Whitey said. He stopped in his tracks and avoided Kid’s eyes. “Oh.” He retreated a step toward third, listened.
Flip slapped Kid on his rump. “The same thing happened to me fifteen years ago, back in Norfolk, before I hit the show.”
Kid sighed, but he straightened up.
“Every time I hear that Garth Brooks song about unanswered prayers,” Flip said, “I think about how lucky I am things didn’t work out with my high school sweetheart. Better for both of us. But I know that doesn’t make it any easier for you. At the time, I thought I was going to die. I hurt.”
“I love Paula, but I want to play ball. And to do that, I have to be gone a lot.” Kid sniffled, flipped his sunglasses down over his eyes.
“Come over to my room tonight. We’ll talk about it. Have a few beers.”
“Thanks, Flip.”
“All right then. Let’s play ball.” Flip strolled back to the mound, glanced over his shoulder to make sure everyone was in position, looked in for Pudge’s sign. Flip nodded, wound up, and delivered a slow curve. Frenchie Watson, got out in front of the pitch and hit a soft liner to short. Whitey moved one step to his right, stuck out his glove and dropped the ball. He picked it up, but muffed it again, so runners stood safe at first and second.
The sellout crowd let out a chorus of boos. “Hey, fumble fingers!” shouted a fan wearing a Stan Musial jersey. “Can you hold onto it when you take a leak?” He slapped a high five with his pot-bellied buddy in the seat next to him.
“My fault.” Whitey dropped the ball into Flip’s mitt. He stood next to Flip on the mound, like they were waiting for someone.
“No problem,” Flip kicked some dirt out of the spot on the hill where he pushed off with his right foot. When he finished, Whitey still stood there, like a supervisor on the landscape crew. “No problem,” Flip repeated.
Bull trotted in from first, with Kenny Mitchell, the second sacker, a few steps behind. “I’m going to play off the base,” Bull said. “Watson’s not going anywhere.”
“Do you think I oughta quit?” Whitey said.
“Quit?” Mitchell asked. He wore wrap-around sunglasses. Sweat glistened on his black face.
“You’re only thirty.” Bull lifted off his cap. “With all these gray hairs, I’ll be the first one to go.”
“Amanda’s got Parkinson’s. She was diagnosed last week.” Whitey kicked up a puff of dirt. “I mean, I don’t wanna quit, but maybe I should. Maybe it’s the right thing to do.”
Bull draped his beefy arm around Whitey’s shoulder. “We can work this out. Alexis and I only live six blocks away. Lexie ‘ll help out when we’re on the road. She’ll be glad to do it.”
“My Uncle Henry has that,” Mitchell chimed in, chomping on his gum as he talked. “Doctors are startin’ to figure that shit out.”
“We’ll raise money,” Flip added. “We’ll set up a foundation to raise money for research. Fans will chip in, too.”
“Play ball! You don’t get paid by the hour.” The voice came from high in the stands.
“I’ll put up ten grand right now. Get the ball rolling.” Bull smiled and squeezed Whitey’s shoulder.
“What’s there to talk about?” barked another fan. “Just catch the damn ball!”
“Thanks,” Whitey said. “Thanks to all of you. I’ve been praying all week. You guys are God’s answer. Is it all right if we pray, right now, for Amanda?”
Harley Highsmith, the manager, waddled out of the dugout. “What the fuck’s going on?” Harley asked. He spat out a spray of sunflower seeds and stood with his thumbs hooked inside his pants.
“Whitey’s going to say a prayer,” Mitchell said. He removed his cap and shades. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight.
“Yeah, and I’m the fuckin’ Pope.” Harley reached into his back pocket and tossed a handful of seeds into his mouth.
Whitey closed his eyes. “God, please give Amanda the strength she needs to face this obstacle.”
“Jesus Christ!” Harley snatched his hat off, bowed his head, and stood in his national anthem stance.
“Amen,” Flip added.
“All right, uh…good, now…” Harley wiped his brow. “Let’s get out of this inning. Just one more out.” He trudged backed to the dugout.
Flip tossed the rosin bag in his right hand as he waited for his fielders to get ready. Flip shook off Pudge’s signal, nodded when his catcher changed the sign to a fastball, wound up and delivered a high hard one Wilton Hendrix watched sail by for ball one. On the next pitch, a slider, Hendrix hit a lazy pop-up off the end of his bat. Bull stepped to his left, came in two paces, fell down onto his knees and shielded his eyes with his mitt. The ball landed two feet behind him. Boos reverberated throughout the park. Fans littered the warning track with cups and water bottles.
Bull stood up and rubbed his eyes, like he’d looked directly at an eclipse and damaged his sight. Kenny Mitchell picked up the ball and called time. “Bright sun,” he said, but it was behind a cloud. He lobbed the ball over to Flip.
“Yeah, just before the ball started to drop, I lost it.” Bull stood up, eyed the sky, spotted a cloud shaped like a baby bottle.
“Shake it off, Bull,” Flip said.
“I wish I could, but some things can’t be shaken off.” Bull rubbed his left eye. “What’s the matter?” Pudge joined the conference. He took of his mask and put his catcher’s mitt under his arm.
“She’s pregnant,” Bull said.
“Lexie is.” Mitchell slapped Bull’s ass. “Congratulations. I…”
“Not Lexie. Margaret.”
“Margaret? Who’s Margaret?” asked Pudge.
“I met her in Detroit last summer. Since then she’s met me in LA, New York, Anaheim— you name any town except St. Louie—and she’s been there.” Bull hung his head. “Now she’s preggers. She wants to have the baby.”
“Does Lexie know?” Flip asked
“No. I haven’t told anyone.”
“Lexie will stick with you,” Mitchell said. “Just tell her before the press gets wind of this. You gotta tell her first.”
“Hey, you guys are on the same side. You don’t need peace talks!” The pot-bellied fan elbowed his pal. “I bet you can’t top that line.”
“How are my kids gonna look up to me after this?” Bull shook his head. “I mean, how can I look them in the eye, ever, and tell them to do the right thing after what I done?”
“You fucked up, Bull, but you don’t have to fuck up tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day.” Flip kicked the pitching rubber. “From now on, you go where you belong. You do the right thing, and each day you do it, you’ll earn back Lexie’s trust. And your kids’ respect. It won’t be easy, but you can do it.”
“He’s right, Bull.” Pudge put his mitt on and held it up in front of his mouth as he talked. “I’ve never told anyone this, but I knocked up a girl in A ball. I send her a check every month, and even Sheryl doesn’t know about it.” He looked up in the stands, watched the wave pass through the crowd. “It was a boy. A boy I haven’t seen in ten years. He’d be in little league right now.” Pudge looked off in the distance, like he was imagining his boy in a uniform. “He’s probably tearing up the league, but I’m not seeing him do it. He doesn’t even have my last name. I’ve been thinking about him a lot. I’d like to see him. Know him. I got two kids at home with Sheryl, but I got three kids in my heart.”
“I want to know my kid,” Bull said. “But I don’t want to lose Lexie. Six years of being faithful, and then…”
“Talk to her,” Flip said. “You’ve gotta tell her. It’s the only way.”
Bull nodded. “I have to face the consequences. I’ll tell her.” He walked back to his position.
“Bull, I don’t want to be a snoop,” Wilton Hendrix said, standing on the first base bag, “but I overhead. Get tested. Make sure it’s yours. Same thing happened to me a few years back, turned out it wasn’t my baby.” He sighed, like he’d just heard the test results. “I’ve been on the straight and narrow ever since. Thinking I might lose Sue make me appreciate her. I didn’t have to, but I told her. It took a while, but she trusted me again.”
The crowd, seeing the two opposing players talking face-to-face, roared in anticipation of a fight. “Do you think,” Bull asked, “she would have stuck with you if it was your baby?”
“She says she would’ve,” Hendrix said. “My mistake was the same either way. Of course, a baby would’ve been a permanent reminder, a regular expense.”
The second base umpire jogged over. “I’ve never had to tell this to guys on opposing teams, but you need to break up the conference and play ball.”
Mookie Mays, a speedy left-hander, stepped into the batter’s box for the Mets. On Flip’s first pitch, a cut fastball, Mookie pushed a bunt past the mound. Kenny Mitchell charged in from second, scooped the ball cleanly, but as he turned to fire the ball to third, the base runner, running on the pitch, was already sliding into the bag. Mitchell pivoted back toward first and cocked his arm to throw.
“Just hold onto it,” yelled Whitey from shortstop.
“Sorry,” Mitchell said. “My head’s not in the game.”
“That’s all right,” Whitey said. “We still have five runs on them.”
A crescendo of boos rained down on the players.
Flip picked up the rosin bag and slammed it down. He kicked up a puff of dirt. “Sorry, Mitch, I was slow off the mound, or I would’ve gotten it.”
“I lost ten grand last night playing blackjack.” Mitchell stood next to Flip on the edge of the mound.
“Tough night,” Flip said. “Cards change, just like days.”
“It’s more than that. I have a wife and two kids, and I’ve pissed away half of this year’s salary, and it’s not even June yet.” Mitchell squeezed the ball like it was a piggy bank that needed to be broken. “1-800 BETSOFF. That’s all I can think of right now. I need to make the call. I need help.”
“You have a cell. As soon as the game’s over, make the call.” Flip squeezed Mitchell’s shoulder. “Hell, we’ve got Javier. He can take over right now.” Flip motioned for the umpire. “Doug, we’ve got an injury here.”
The umpire motioned toward the dugout, and Harley Highsmith did his version of running, which consisted of moving his arms faster and swinging his butt more as he moved at his normal speed. “What’s going on?” he barked.
“Mitch has a personal problem. He needs to take care of it. Right now.” Flip took the ball from Mitchell. “Can you get Javier in here?”
“Sure.” Harley looked at Mitchell, waited, but Mitch didn’t say anything. Harley draped his arm around him, walked off the field with him.
“That’s a start. Now replace the rest of the infielders!” Harley recognized the voice. The fan called into Harley’s radio show, using the name ‘Crazy Cardinal.’ He had been written up in the paper because he wore a Cardinals uniform when he mowed grass for a lawn service company. “He sweats his ass off,” Crazy Cardinal’s boss said in the article.
Flip threw a few pitches to stay loose. Then he walked behind the mound and watched Bull fire grounders that Javier scooped up and threw to first with an easy, sidearm motion. When Javier signaled that he was ready, Flip climbed the hill, toed the rubber. He eyed the runners leading off all three sacks, moved his front leg toward home, but fired the ball over to first base. Bull slapped the tag on Mookie Mays who was two feet off the base.
“Balk!” bellowed the home plate umpire. He gestured that Mookie was safe and waved each runner on to the next base.
Pudge met Flip halfway between home and the mound. “That was subtle, Flip. What the fuck!”
“I’m sorry. Dad died four years ago today.”
Pudge dropped his mitt and mask. “No happiness in that kind of anniversary. December 4th. That’s the day I lost my dad.”
“He was my first coach, been thinking about him all day. Advice he gave about girls. The night he talked Mom into letting me have a dirt bike.” Flip handed the ball to Pudge and walked toward the dugout. Pudge followed him, turned Flip with a tug on his shoulder, hugged him.
Harley made his third trip onto the field. “Tough inning.” Harley fidgeted, waited, his pitcher and catcher still locked in an embrace. He looked down to the bullpen where Lefty Hitz and Sandy Scott tossed their warmup pitches.
“You remember my dad,” Flip said.
“Sure,” Harley said. “We flew him up the season you lost ten games by June 1st. He knew your delivery better than anyone. He spotted something in your release point and got you back on track. And no one made better homemade beer.”
“Today’s the anniversary of the day he passed,” Pudge said. “Bad day for the Flipper to be out here throwing.” He made eye contact with Flip. “We’ll finish this job for you.”
“Thanks,” Flip said. He looked at Harley who nodded. Flipped finished his walk across the infield, skipped over the foul line, and acknowledged the crowd with a tip of his cap.
Harley sighed. He thought of Whitey, Mitchell and Flip, and about the day his own father died.
Harvey looked down to the bullpen, where two of the best relievers in the game waited for his call, but no matter how long Harley looked, he couldn’t see any relief in sight.