Magic Time, page 18
“I didn’t want to believe that anything out of the ordinary was going on here. Everything is so … perfect.”
“You’re right, it’s perfect.”
“But everyone else knows. How can I ever face them?”
“They’ve all gone through it. They’ve all survived.”
“Dan Morgenstern left the team.”
“He was a denier, Mike. Claimed he’d never choked in his life. Didn’t believe a word we told him. He’s better off back in New Jersey. Not happier, but better off.”
“And Felix Rincon? He’s a choker, too?”
“Why was he apprenticing as a plumber instead of playing professional baseball when we found him?”
“Is there something magical going on here?”
“Magical? No.”
“A team that isn’t a team?”
“Mike, look at what’s been accomplished here in Grand Mound. The people who originally came up with the idea were years ahead of their time. They saw the future, Mike, saw that the small towns, not just in Iowa, but everywhere, were going to die, dry up and blow away like dandelion fluff.
“‘How can we keep our town together?’ they asked. ‘How can we make Grand Mound prosper and grow, when all around America small towns are withering and dying? We can’t stop our young people from going off to the cities, but maybe we could bring some young men here, baseball players, who, if we made life attractive for them, would stay with us, marry into the community, keep the faith, so to speak.’
“They tell me that at first the plan didn’t work at all. Emmett and his friends saw baseball as the key to luring young men here, but Grand Mound didn’t have a team in the Cornbelt League, and there was no possibility of getting one.
“At first talented players were recruited, but when they found out what was going on, what Emmett and the group really had in mind, that there was no team in the Cornbelt League, that they had been recruited simply to play inter-squad games for the entertainment of local fans, they scattered to the four winds like a flock of startled birds.
“Then someone, and I’m sure that someone was Dilly Eastwick, stumbled on the idea of recruiting players who had good solid statistics, but didn’t come through in the clutch. There were hundreds of them out there, some of the Booster Club had been there themselves, pretty fair amateur ballplayers until the crunch came.
“In Grand Mound they gave those players a chance to play, to display their abilities in front of appreciative fans. Every player is assured by the manager, in private, soon after they arrive, that they’ve made the team. The players play well because they’re not anxious, not worried about making a mistake. And play well they do, Mike. You’re a prime example.”
Roger Cash flashed his wide, winning smile at me.
“When they realize what’s happening, don’t some of them run off, too?”
“Oh, the first few years were pretty rough, they tell me, but you know, Mike, deep in his heart, every player who is a choker knows it. Every once in a while a Dan Morgenstern won’t admit it; but for most, when they discover the truth about Grand Mound, it’s such an immense relief to know the pressure’s off, that they’re grateful to Emmett and Dilly, and for the last few years, me, and make a real effort to fit into the community.”
“But Tracy Ellen … how can I face her? She’s known all along. She must have been laughing behind her hand at me all this time, her and that Neanderthal who drives that earthmoving machine he calls a truck.”
“So you’ve been a little slow to catch on. You’re not in Japan, Mike. Losing face isn’t the be-all and end-all.”
“I could take some kidding from the players, but not from Tracy Ellen. Besides I’m not …”
“Don’t be a denier, Mike.”
“I admit, I’ve choked in some situations. But I’ve also played well when the chips were down. God, if I can’t perform in the clutch, what’s going to happen to me when I’m in line for a promotion with some multinational corporation?”
“All the more reason to stay in Grand Mound. You’ll never have to find out. You’ll always be with people who love you and understand you.”
“It’s too pat, too perfect. It’s like those few moments at sunset and dawn, when the light is perfect, the sky beautiful, and moviemakers shoot their love scenes.”
“What if it were magic time all the time, Mike? I’m not saying it’s possible, I’m just saying what if?”
Only a few hours before I had witnessed the wonder of dawn breaking over Grand Mound, the sky subtly changing color, the approaching sun a slash of molten metal across the eastern horizon.
“Look into the future, Mike,” Roger went on. “Barring injury, you play second base for eight or ten years. About the time you retire from baseball Emmett will retire from his business and you’ll take over. In a year or so, you’ll marry Tracy Ellen. There will be children, a home, a happy life. One day you and Tracy Ellen will probably offer free board and room to a young ballplayer. You’ll be inducted into the Grand Mound Booster Club. You’ll be a director of the Grand Mound Greenshirts …”
“But if what you say is possible — and I’m not sure I believe that it is — I’ll know exactly where my life is headed. There will be no surprises. I’m not sure I want to live like that.”
“All fairway and no rough. Most people would grab at a chance like that, with both hands and their heart. It’s called security, Mike. That’s what you’re being offered.”
“But I didn’t get a chance to prove myself in professional baseball. Will-power can overcome a lot of things, including choking in key situations.”
“We’re satisfied you can’t overcome.”
“Who the hell are you to be satisfied about what I can and can’t do?”
“Don’t do this, Mike.”
“Come to think of it, what the hell are you doing living in Grand Mound, Roger? I’d have guessed you’d be selling water softeners, encyclopedias, or Florida swamp land.”
“Feel free to speak your mind, Mike.” Roger Cash laughs his deep, resonant laugh. “You don’t beat around the bush do you? How long is it since we met? Six, seven years?”
“About that.”
“You were what, seventeen? Well, I was thirty-six, so my life expectancy as a pitcher was pretty limited. But I kept pressing on. I didn’t keep all my cash in the safe in the Caddy. There were a few deposit boxes scattered safely about the country. No pun intended.
“I didn’t lose very often, Mike. But a couple of years after I met you, I drifted into Grand Mound and ended up at the Doll House Café recruiting a couple of boys to set up a game between Grand Mound High School with me pitching and the best local team, which turned out to be the Greenshirts, this odd semi-pro team that only played for their own amusement.”
“So they whipped your ass, you lost everything, and you had to stay in Grand Mound?”
“Not at all, although it always surprises me how much loose money there is in a small town. I happened to do an interview with Dilly Eastwick for the Grand Mound Leader that sort of disparaged small-town baseball. I didn’t have a clue what was going on here, I was just looking for some way to pique interest in the game. So I said the reason I was able to win most of my games, even though I had only the local high-school team behind me was that most amateur teams choked when they faced professional pitching.
‘Well, after that I had to wire away for more money to cover all the bets. Can you believe it! A town with a baseball club made up of professional chokers bet thousands of dollars that their team wouldn’t choke.”
“If they didn’t beat you, what happened?”
“Don’t hurry a good story, Mike. I did manage to have my usual advantage, but what I had to go through to get it made me consider retiring. Grand Mound had an old, arthritic groundskeeper who lived right in the equipment room at Fred Noonan Field. He didn’t need much sleep, so when it came time for me to move the pitching rubber back six inches, I had to creep into the ballpark, and do all my groundskeeping practically lying down so as not to attract any attention, and being silent as a shadow, because in spite of his age that groundskeeper could hear the grass grow.
“The day of the game everything went as expected. We scored four runs in the first, and one more in the second, and I went into the seventh with a 5-3 lead. The second pitch to the second batter I faced was a fastball out of the strike zone. But as I let it go something popped in my shoulder. The noise was so loud that I thought the batter had fouled the pitch off. Then the pain hit me. My arm just hung at my side.
“My career was over, but there were more immediate problems — there was no provision for injury in the contract. It was all verbal: the Greenshirts against the high-school team with me pitching, but nothing about what should happen if I couldn’t pitch.
“I could try to employ the five-inning rule. Saying that since five innings had been played the game was complete — a 5-3 victory for us.
“They could counter, saying the only thing that could stop a game was weather or an act of war. They could also say that since I was unable to continue the game had to be defaulted.
“I thought that the most likely scenario. I decided I’d willingly forfeit the game, but since it wasn’t a complete game I’d suggest the bets be voided and all money returned.
“Turned out I didn’t have to worry, Mike. While Doctor Greenspan was appraising my arm, Dilly and Emmett were telling me that since I couldn’t continue, something that appeared pretty obvious, all bets were off because they didn’t want to take advantage of my injury.
“Doctor Greenspan X-rayed me and wanted to put me in the nearest hospital for a day or two, but I had to beg off. These people were killing me with kindness, and I had a ball field to repair. It was the first time I ever felt guilty, Mike. Here I’d been taking advantage of these people, and now that I was injured they were falling all over themselves to be nice to me.
“I was rooming at the home of a young widow whose husband had been killed in Vietnam. I am never averse to female company, so we had spent a delightful week together.
“Mike, if you think I didn’t have a difficult time getting out of that house in the middle of the night, you just think again. My shoulder was so sore it felt, in spite of the medication Dr. Greenspan had given me, like a pistol was being fired into it at about thirty-second intervals. And Janet, the woman I was boarding with, was so happy to have someone to nurse that she hardly left me alone for a minute.
“But I escaped and got to the ballpark, tippy-toed out of the house like a burglar. Three in the morning and there I am with garden tools on my left shoulder and wondering how I can repair the mound with only one arm, and in so much pain I saw red stars every time I bent over even slightly.
“Then, Mike, I discovered a most remarkable thing. I had to measure from the plate to the mound to establish where to set the rubber so the distance between the two would be exactly sixty feet six inches. I had to place a rock on the end of my tape on the plate and then pull the tape awkwardly until I got it to the mound.
“I measured and measured, but the distance between the plate and the rubber was already sixty feet six inches.
“I never did find out when the rubber had been replaced. Was it before or after the game? Did we score legitimate runs in the first and second inning? Or was my sinister groundskeeping repaired after the game was over? I’ve never found out.
“By the time my shoulder healed enough for me to think of looking for work, I was seriously involved with Janet. All the mornings of my convalescence were spent in the Doll House Café, afternoons and evenings with Janet at the ballpark. I’d checked my finances and decided I had enough money to live comfortably if I held a part-time job of some sort, something that would just earn me grocery money. The day Janet and I announced our marriage plans the old groundskeeper announced his retirement, and Dilly and Emmett and a delegation of townspeople offered me the job at Fred Noonan Field.
“Mike, I have never been happier. I have two sons, and a baby girl just two months old. My oldest’s going to be a left-handed pitcher, and, who knows, maybe when the time comes I’ll teach him all about distances.
“Mike, trust me. We in Grand Mound have done our homework: we’ve studied the distances, we’ve done our groundskeeping …”
“Meaning what?”
“Emmett probably hasn’t mentioned that the whole family scouted you — Emmett, Marge, and Tracy Ellen.”
“Tracy Ellen?”
“The three of them flew down to Baton Rouge and watched you play a half-dozen games. They even sat next to you in a restaurant called the Blue … Blue … something.”
“The Blue Parrot.”
“Right. You never noticed them, of course. You were with a girl, and another couple: you ordered roast beef, iced tea, and cherry pie à la mode.”
“Tracy Ellen was there?”
“You were her choice for second base.”
“Then what about Shag Wilson? Him and his goddamned earth-moving truck?”
“Shag Wilson’s a lot nicer boy than Emmett’s let on. If you check you’ll find that Emmett gives him a whopping discount on his insurance …”
“That’s worse than devious.”
“Mike, are you happy? Have you been happy here in Grand Mound these past few weeks?”
“Yes, I’ve been happy.”
“Then I rest my case. Grand Mound rests its case. You’ve got information to process, Mike. Skip practice this afternoon, the game tonight if you want. Sleep on it. If you honestly think you can catch on with a professional ball club, and if your heart’s set on giving it a try, no one in Grand Mound will stand in your way.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said, moving away from the white Cadillac, which was no longer the antiseptic vehicle I had known. The signs of family life bloomed like small desecrations on the upholstery, a spill here, a crease there: toys, towels, a pair of tiny multi-colored bathing trunks on the back seat, a teething ring hanging from the knob of the cigarette lighter.
“Get in,” said Roger. “I’ll drive you back to town.”
“No. I can’t face the people of Grand Mound.”
What I meant was I couldn’t face Tracy Ellen. I can’t stand the thought of someone I may be in love with laughing at my gullibility, my naïvety. I could picture Tracy Ellen and Shag Wilson howling at my stupidity, wondering when I’d catch on.
“They tell me you’re the best second-base man who’s ever played at Fred Noonan Field.”
“Yeah, and who told you that? The ever-reliable Dilly Eastwick? I’ll let you know where to send my belongings,” I said walking away from the Cadillac.
“This is a secondary road, Mike. What have we seen, two cars since we’ve been out here?”
“I can walk.”
“I’ll give you a ride.”
“You’ve done enough for me already.”
“Suit yourself, Mike. I’ll watch for your stats in Baseball America.”
“You do that,” I said, turning my back.
TWENTY-SIX
Cedar Rapids Airport.
I didn’t look back even once until I was sure Roger Cash and the Cadillac would be well out of sight. It was approaching noon. The sky was a cloudless blue from horizon to horizon. The only sounds were the trembling of leaves on a few aspens alongside the road. A hawk circled silently; in fact, I was unaware of it until its shadow crossed the highway just a few feet in front of me. The eeriest of feelings. I could smell the corn growing.
I walked down the highway listening for the sounds of a vehicle approaching from behind me so I could begin hitchhiking. I turned and studied each approaching vehicle closely. I kept expecting to be picked up by Emmett, or Dilly Eastwick, or even one of my teammates. I fantasized that there was no way I could leave Grand Mound. Every driver would recognize me as a baseball player trying to escape and attempt to return me, by force if necessary, to Fred Noonan Field.
Eventually I got a five-mile ride with a tanker driver who knew nothing and cared nothing about the Cornbelt League or Grand Mound, or whether I was going to find personal happiness, or make it as a professional baseball player. I got two more short rides, so short I was still looking over my shoulder prepared to run if I spotted someone from Grand Mound, when, at a pay phone in a motel parking lot on the outskirts of a nameless town, I placed a collect call to Justin Birdsong.
There was a very long pause while Justin considered the information the operator gave him, evaluating the cost of the call against what he had to offer me.
“I’ll accept the charges,” Justin Birdsong said.
“Any chance that the Knoxville position is still open?”
“What happened to Grand Mound? A week ago you were going to stay there forever.”
“Everything fell apart in Grand Mound. They lied about everything. Don’t ever send anyone else there. They don’t have a team in the Cornbelt League, all they do is play inter-squad games. But my play was real good. I was batting .333 and fielding like a Hoover.”
“Well, you’re in luck. They still need somebody with experience in Knoxville, almost every second-base man and utility infielder in their organization is injured, and while they have a couple of hot shots in Class A ball, they don’t want to advance them too quickly.”
“So I’ve got it?”
“Are you still in Grand Mound?”
“No. I’m hitchhiking.”
“Well, give me a number where I can wire the plane fare. Knoxville’s at home; you can probably be their starting secondbase man tomorrow night.”
Once I got to the Cedar Rapids Airport, I collected the money, got a handful of quarters and called Roger Cash’s house. I figured he’d be at the ballpark. There were children shrieking in the background when his wife answered. I’d seen Janet Cash at the ballpark many evenings, a short, dark-complexioned, very beautiful woman, who often nursed her baby daughter while her twin sons pulled at her sleeves for attention. I told her where Roger could send my belongings, then sat back to wait for my plane. I kept one eye on the main door to the airport lounge in case a delegation from Grand Mound might come in search of me.
