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STEPHENKING

Storyville2010

Thisisforeveryguy(andgal)

whoeverputonthegear.

Oh my God, you meanBlockade Billy. Nobody’saskedmeabouthiminyears.Of course, no one asks memuch of anything in here,except if I’d like to sign upforPolkaNightattheKofP

Hall downtownor somethingcalled Virtual Bowling.That’s right here in theCommon Room. My advicetoyou,Mr.King—youdidn’task for it, but I’ll give it toyou—is don’t get old, and ifyou do, don’t let yourrelativesputyou inazombiehotellikethisone.

It’s a funny thing,getting old. When you’reyoung,peoplealwayswanttolisten to your stories,

especially if youwere in probaseball. But when you’reyoung,youdon’thavetimetotellthem.NowI’vegotallthetime in the world, and itseems like nobody caresabout those old days. But Istill like to thinkabout them.So sure, I’ll tell you aboutBillyBlakely.Awfulstory,ofcourse,butthosearetheonesthatlastthelongest.

Baseballwasdifferentinthose days. You have to

rememberthatBlockadeBillyplayedfortheTitansonlytenyears after Jackie Robinsonbroke the color barrier, andthe Titans are long gone. Idon’t suppose New Jerseywill everhaveanotherMajorLeague team, not with twopowerhouse franchises justacrosstheriverinNewYork.But it was a big deal then—we were a big deal—andwe played our games in adifferentworld.

Theruleswerethesame.Thosedon’t change.And thelittle rituals were prettysimilar, too. Oh, nobodywould have been allowed towear their cap cocked to theside, or curve the brim, andyour hair had to be neat andshort (the way thesechuckleheads wear it now,my God), but some playersstill crossed themselvesbefore they stepped into thebox, or drew in the dirtwith

theheadsof theirbatsbeforetaking up the stance, orjumped over the baselinewhen they were running outto take their positions.Nobodywantedtosteponthebaseline, it was consideredtheworstlucktodothat.

The game was local,okay?TVhadstartedtocomein,butonlyontheweekends.We had a good market,because the games were onWNJ, and everyone in New

York could watch. Some ofthose broadcasts were prettycomical. Compared to thewaytheydotoday’sgames,itwas all amateur night inDixie.Radiowasbetter,moreprofessional, but of coursethat was local, too. Nosatellite broadcasts, becausethere were no satellites! TheRussianssentthefirstoneupduring the Yanks-BravesWorld Series that year. As Iremember, ithappenedonan

off-day,butIcouldbewrongabout that.What I rememberis that theTitanswereoutofit early that year. Wecontended for awhile, partlythanks toBlockadeBilly,butyou know how that turnedout.It’swhyyoucame,right?

But here’s what I’mgetting at: because the gamewas smaller on the nationalstage, the players weren’tsuch a big deal. I’m notsaying there weren’t stars—

guys like Aaron, Burdette,Williams, Kaline, and ofcourse The Mick—but mostweren’t as well-known coastto coast as players like AlexRodriguez and Barry Bonds(a couple of bushers, if youask me). And most of theother guys? I can tell you intwo words: working stiffs.Theaveragesalaryback thenwasfifteengrand, less thanafirst-year high school teachermakestoday.

Working stiffs, get it?Just likeGeorgeWill said inthat book of his. Only hetalkedaboutthatlikeitwasagoodthing.I’mnotsosureitwas, if you were a thirty-year-oldshortstopwithawifeand three kids and maybeanother seven years to gobeforeretirement.Ten,ifyouwere lucky and didn’t gethurt. Carl Furillo ended upinstalling elevators in theWorld Trade Center and

moonlighting as a nightwatchman, did you knowthat?Youdid?Doyou thinkthatguyWillknewit,or justforgottomentionit?

Thedealwasthis:ifyouhad the skills and could dothejobevenwithahangover,you got to play. If youcouldn’t, you got tossed onthe scrapheap. It was thatsimple.Andasbrutal.Whichbrings me to our catchingsituationthatspring.

Wewere in good shapeduring camp, which for theTitans was in Sarasota. Ourstarting catcher was JohnnyGoodkind. Maybe you don’trememberhim.Ifyoudo,it’sprobably because of the wayhe ended up. He had fourgoodyears, battedover .300,put the gear on almost everygame. Knew how to handlethe pitchers, didn’t take anyguff. The kids didn’t dareshake him off. He hit damn

near .350 that spring, withmaybe a dozen ding-dongs,one as deep and far as any Iever saw at Ed SmithStadium, where the balldidn’t carrywell.Putout thewindshieldinsomereporter’sChevrolet—ha!

But he was also a bigdrinker, and two days beforethe team was supposed toheadnorthandopenathome,he ran over a woman onPineapple Street and killed

her just as dead as adormouse. Or doornail.Whatever thesaying is.Thenthe damn fool tried to run.But there was a CountySheriff’s cruiser parked onthecornerofOrange,andthedeputiesinsidesawthewholething. Wasn’t much doubtabout Johnny’s state, either.When theypulledhimoutofhis car, he smelled like abrewery and could hardlystand. One of the deputies

bentdowntoputthecuffsonhim,andJohnnythrewuponthe back of the guy’s head.Johnny Goodkind’s career inbaseball was over before thepuke dried. Even the Babecouldn’t have stayed in thegame after running over ahousewife out doing hermorningshop-around.

His backup was a guynamed Frank Faraday. Notbad behind the plate, but abanjo hitter at best. Went

about one-fifty. No bulk,which put him at risk. Thegame was played hard inthose days, Mr. King, withplentyoffuck-you.

But Faraday was whatwehad.IrememberDiPunnosayinghewouldn’t last long,but not even Jersey Joe hadan idea how short a time itwasgoingtobe.

Faraday was behind theplatewhenweplayedourlastexhibition game that year.

Against the Reds, it was.Therewasasqueezeplayputon. Don Hoak at the plate.Somebighulk—IthinkitwasTed Kluszewski—on third.HoakpunchestheballrightatJerryRugg,whowaspitchingfor us that day. Big Klewbreaks for the plate, all twohundred and seventy Polackpounds of him. And there’sFaraday, just aboutas skinnyas a Flav’r Straw, standingwith one foot on the old

dishola. You knew it wasgoing to end bad. Ruggthrows to Faraday. Faradayturns to put the tag on. Icouldn’tlook.

Faraday hung onto theballandgot theout, I’llgivehimthat,onlyitwasaspringtraining out, as important inthegreatschemeof thingsasalowfartinahighwind.Andthat was the end of hisbaseball career. One brokenarm, one broken leg, a

concussion—that was thescore. I don’t know whatbecame of him. Wound upwashing windshields for tipsat an Esso station inTucumcari,forallIknow.Hewouldn’tbetheonlyone.

Buthere’s thepoint:welost both our catchers in thespaceofforty-eighthoursandhad to go northwith nobodytoputbehindtheplateexceptfor Ganzie Burgess, whoconverted from catcher to

pitcherintheearlyfifties.Hewas thirty-nineyearsold thatseason and only good formiddle relief, but he was aknuckleballer, and as craftyas Satan, so nowaywas JoeDiPunno going to risk thoseold bones behind the plate.He said he’d put me backthere first. I knew he wasjoking—I was just an oldthird-base coach with somany groin-pulls my ballswere practically banging on

my knees—but the idea stillmademeshiver.

What Joe did was callthe front office in Newarkand say, “I need a guy whocan catch Hank Masters’sfastball and Danny Doo’scurve without falling on hiskeister. I don’t care if heplays for Testicle Tire inTremont, justmake surehe’sgotamittandhavehimattheSwamp in time for theNationalAnthem.Thengetto

work finding me a realcatcher. If you want to haveany chance at all ofcontending this season, thatis.” Then he hung up and litwhat was probably hiseightiethcigaretteoftheday.

Oh for the life of amanager, huh? One catcherfacing manslaughter charges;another in the hospital,wrappedinsomanybandageshe looked like Boris Karloffin The Mummy; a pitching

staffeithernotoldenough toshave or about ready for theSociable Security; Godknows who about to put onthegearandsquatbehindtheplateonOpeningDay.

We flew north that yearinsteadofridingtherails,butit still felt like a trainwreck.Meanwhile, KerwinMcCaslin, who was theTitans’GM,gotonthephoneandfoundusacatchertostartthe season with: William

Blakely,soontobeknownasBlockade Billy. I can’tremember now if he camefromDoubleorTripleA,butyoucould look it uponyourcomputer, I guess, because Ido know the name of theteam he came from: theDavenport Cornhuskers. Afew players came up fromthere during my seven yearswith the Titans, and theregulars would always askhow things were down there

playing for the Cornholers.Or sometimes they’d callthem the Cocksuckers.Baseball humor is not whatyou’dcallsophisticated.

We opened against theRedSoxthatyear.MiddleofApril. Baseball started laterbackthen,andplayedasanerschedule. I got to the parkearly that day—before Godgotoutofbed,actually—andtherewasayoungmansittingonthebumperofanoldFord

truckintheplayers’lot.Iowalicense plate dangling onchickenwire from the backbumper. Nick the guard lethim inwhen the kid showedhim his letter from the frontofficeandhisdriver’slicense.

“You must be BillBlakely,” I said, shaking hishand.“Goodtoknowyou.”

“Good to know youtoo,” he said. “I brought mygear,butit’sprettybeat-up.”

“Oh,Ithinkwecantake

care of you there, partner,” Isaid, letting go of his hand.He had a Band-Aid wrappedaroundhissecondfinger,justbelow the middle knuckle.“Cut yourself shaving?” Iasked,pointingtoit.

“Yup, cut myselfshaving,” he says. I couldn’ttell if that was his way ofshowinghegotmylittlejoke,orifhewassoworriedaboutfucking up he thought heought to agree with

everything anyone said, atleasttobeginwith.LateronIrealized it was neither ofthose things; he just had ahabit of echoing back whatyousaidtohim.Igotusedtoit,evensortofgottolikeit.

“Areyou themanager?”heasked.“Mr.DiPunno?”

“No,” I said, “I’mGeorgeGrantham.Granny toyou. I coach third base. I’malsotheequipmentmanager.”Which was the truth; I did

bothjobs.Toldyouthegamewas smaller then. “I’ll getyoufixedup,don’tworry.Allnewgear.”

“Allnewgear,”sayshe.“Except for theglove. IhavetohaveBilly’soldglove,youknow. Billy Junior and me’sbeenthemiles.”

“Well, that’s fine withme.” And we went on in towhat the sports writers usedto callOld Swampy in thosedays.

I hesitated over givinghim 19, because it was pooroldFaraday’snumber,buttheuniform fit him withoutlookinglikepajamas,soIdid.Whilehewasdressing,Isaid:“Ain’t you tired? You musthave driven almost nonstop.Didn’t they send you somecashtotakeaplane?”

“I ain’t tired,” he said.“They might have sent mesomecashtotakeaplane,butI didn’t see it. Could we go

lookatthefield?”I saidwecould, and led

himdowntherunwayandupthrough the dugout. Hewalked down to home plateoutside the foul line inFaraday’s uniform, the blue19 gleaming in the morningsun (it wasn’t but eighto’clock, the groundskeepersjust startingwhatwouldbealongday’swork).

I wish I could tell youhow it felt to see him taking

that walk, Mr. King, butwords are your thing, notmine.AllIknowisthatback-to he looked more likeFaraday than ever. He wasten years younger, ofcourse…butagedoesn’tshowmuch from the back, exceptsometimes in a man’s walk.Plus he was slim likeFaraday, and slim’s the wayyou want your shortstop andsecond baseman to look, notyourcatcher.Catchersshould

be built like fireplugs, theway Johnny Goodkind was.Thisone looked likeabunchof broken ribs waiting tohappen.

He had a firmer buildthan Frank Faraday, though;broader butt and thickerthighs. He was skinny fromthe waist up, but looking athim ass-end-going-away, Iremember thinkinghe lookedlikewhatheprobablywas:anIowaplowboyonvacation in

scenicNewark.Hewenttotheplateand

turned around to look out todeadcenter.Hehaddarkhairandalockofithadfallenonhis forehead. He brushed itaway and just stood theretaking it all in—the silent,emptystandswhereoverfiftythousand people would besitting that afternoon, thebunting already hung on therailings and fluttering in thelittlemorningbreeze,thefoul

poles painted fresh JerseyBlue,thegroundskeepersjuststarting to water. It was anawesome sight, I alwaysthought, and I could imaginewhat was going through thekid’s mind, him that hadprobably been home milkingthecowsjustaweekagoandwaiting for theCornholers tostartplayinginmid-May.

I thought, Poor kid’sfinally getting the picture.Whenhelooksoverhere,I’ll

see the panic in his eyes. Imay have to tie himdown inthe locker room to keep himfromjumpinginthatoldtruckofhisandhightailing itbacktoGod’scountry.

But when he looked atme,therewasnopanicinhiseyes. No fear. Not evennervousness, which I wouldhave said every player feelson Opening Day. No, helooked perfectly coolstanding there behind the

plate in his Levi’s and lightpoplinjacket.

“Yuh,” he says, like amanconfirmingsomethinghewasprettysureof in thefirstplace.“Billycanhithere.”

“Good for him,” I tellshim. It’s all I can thinkof tosay.

“Good,” he says back.Then—Iswear—hesays,“Doyou think those guys needhelpwiththemhoses?”

I laughed. There was

somethingstrangeabouthim,somethingoff,somethingthatmadefolksnervous…butthatsomething made people taketo him, too. Kinda sweet.Something that made youwant to like him in spite offeeling he wasn’t exactlyrightinthetopstory.Joefeltit right away. Some of theplayers did, too, but thatdidn’t stop them from likinghim.Idon’tknow,itwaslikewhenyoutalkedtohimwhat

came back was the sound ofyourownvoice.Likeanechoinacave.

“Billy,” I said,“groundskeeping ain’t yourjob.Bill’sjobistoputonthegear and catchDannyDusenthisafternoon.”

“DannyDoo,”hesaid.“That’s right. Twenty

andsixlastyear,shouldhavewon the Cy Young, didn’t.He’s still got a red ass overthat.Andrememberthis:ifhe

shakes you off, don’t youdare flash the same signagain. Not unless you wantyour pecker and asshole tochangeplacesafterthegame,that is. Danny Doo is fourgames from two hundredwins, and he’s going to bemean as hell until he getsthere.”

“Until he gets there.”Noddinghishead.

“That’sright.”“If he shakes me off,

flashsomethingdifferent.”“Yes.”“Does he have a

changeup?”“Doyouhave two legs?

The Doo’s won a hundredand ninety-six games. Youdon’t do that without achangeup.”

“Not without achangeup,”hesays.“Okay.”

“And don’t get hurt outthere. Until the front officecanmakeadeal,you’rewhat

wegot.”“I’m it,” he says.

“Gotcha.”“Ihopeso.”Other players were

coming inby then,andIhadaboutathousandthingstodo.Later on I saw the kid inJersey Joe’s office, signingwhateverneededtobesignedwith Kerwin McCaslinhanging over him like avultureoverroadkill,pointingout all the right places. Poor

kid, probably six hours’worth of sleep in the lastsixty, and he was in theresigning five years of his lifeaway. Later I saw him withDusen,goingovertheBostonlineup. The Doo was doingall the talking, and the kidwas doing all the listening.Didn’tevenaskaquestion,sofarasIsaw,whichwasgood.If the kid had opened hishead,Danny probablywouldhavebititoff.

Aboutanhourbeforethegame, I went in to Joe’soffice to look at the lineupcard. He had the kid battingeighth, which was no shock.Over our heads themurmuring had started andyoucouldhear therumbleoffeet on the boards. OpeningDay crowds always pile inearly. Listening to it startedthebutterflies inmygut, likealways,andIcouldseeJerseyJoefeltthesame.Hisashtray

wasalreadyoverflowing.“He’s not big like I

hoped he’d be,” he said,tapping Blakely’s name onthelineupcard.“Godhelpusifhegetscleanedout.”

“McCaslin hasn’t foundanyoneelse?”

“Maybe. He talked toHubie Rattner’s wife, butHubie’s on a fishing tripsomewhere in RectalTemperature, Michigan. Outoftouchuntilnextweek.”

“Cap—Hubie Rattner’sforty-threeifhe’saday.”

“Beggars can’t bechoosers. And be straightwith me—how long do youthink that kid’s gonna last inthebigs?”

“Oh,he’sprobablyjustacup of coffee,” I says, “buthe’s got something Faradaydidn’t.”

“And what might thatbe?”

“Dunno. But if you’d

seenhimstandingbehind theplate and looking out intocenter, you might feel betterabouthim.Itwaslikehewasthinking ‘This ain’t the bigdealIthoughtitwouldbe.’”

“He’llfindouthowbigadeal it is the first time IkeDelock throws one at hisnose,” Joe said, and lit acigarette.He tookadragandstartedhacking.“IgottoquittheseLuckies.Notacoughinacarload,myass.I’llbetyou

twentygoddambucksthatkidlets Danny Doo’s first curvego right through hiswickets.ThenDanny’llbeallupset—youknowhowhe getswhensomeone fucks up his trainride—andBoston’llbeoff totheraces.”

“Ain’t you just thecheeriestCheerio,”Isays.

He stuck out his hand.“Bet.”

And because I knew hewas trying to take the curse

off it, I shookhishand.Thatwas twenty I won, becausethe legend of BlockadeBillystartedthatveryday.

You couldn’t say hecalled a good game, becausehedidn’tcallit.TheDoodidthat. But the first pitch—toFrankMalzone—wasacurve,andthekidcaughtitjustfine.Notonly that, though. Itwasa cunt’s hair outside and Inever saw a catcher pull oneback so fast, not even Yogi.

Ump called strike one and itwas us off to the races, atleastuntilWilliamshitasoloshot in the fifth.We got thatback in the sixth, when BenVincentputoneout.Then inthe seventh, we’ve got arunner on second—I think itwas Barbarino—with twoouts and the new kid at theplate. It was his third at bat.First time he struck outlooking, the second timeswinging.Delock fooled him

badthattime,madehimlooksilly, and he heard the onlyboosheevergotwhilehewaswearingaTitansuniform.

Hestepsin,andIlookedover at Joe. Seen him sittingwaydownbythelineupcard,just looking at the floor andshakinghishead.Even if thekidworked awalk,TheDoowas up next, and The Doocouldn’t hit a slowpitchsoftball with a tennis racket.As a hitter that guy was

fuckingterrible.I won’t drag out the

suspense; this ain’t no kids’sports novel. Althoughwhoever said life sometimesimitates art was right, and itdid that day. Count went tothree and two. Then Delockthrew the sinker that fooledthe kid so bad the first timeand damn if the kid didn’tsuck for it again. Except IkeDelock turned out to be thesuckerthattime.Kidgolfedit

rightoffhisshoetopsthewayEllieHoward used to do andshot it into the gap. I wavedthe runner in andwehad theleadback,twotoone.

Everybody in the jointwas on their feet, screamingtheir throats out, but the kiddidn’t even seem to hear it.Just stood there on second,dusting off the seat of hispants. He didn’t stay therelong, because The Doowentdown on three pitches, then

threw his bat like he alwaysdidwhenhegotstruckout.

So maybe it’s a sportsnovel after all, like the kindyou probably read in juniorhighschoolstudyhall.Topofthe ninth and The Doo’slooking at the top of thelineup. Strikes out Malzone,and a quarter of the crowd’son their feet. Strikes outKlaus, and half the crowd’son their feet. Then comesWilliams—old Teddy

Ballgame.TheDoo gets himon the hip, oh and two, thenweakens andwalks him.Thekid starts out to the moundand Doo waves him back—just squat and do your job,sonny. So sonny does. Whatelseishegonnado?Theguyon the mound is one of thebest pitchers in baseball andthe guybehind the platewasmaybeplayinga littlepickupball behind the barn thatspring to keep in shape after

the day’s cowtits was allpulled.

First pitch, goddam!Williamstakesoffforsecond.Theballwasin thedirt,hardto handle, but the kid stillmade one fuck of a goodthrow.AlmostgotTeddy,butas you know, almost onlycounts in horseshoes. Noweverybody’s on their feet,screaming. The Doo doessome shouting at the kid—like it was the kid’s fault

insteadofjustabullshitpitch—andwhileDoo’stellingthekid he’s a lousy choker,Williams calls time.Hurt hisknee a little sliding into thebag, which shouldn’t havesurprisedanyone;hecouldhitlikenobody’sbusiness,buthewas a leadfoot on the bases.Whyhestoleabagthatdayisanybody’s guess. It surewasn’t no hit-and-run, notwith two outs and the gameontheline.

So Billy Andersoncomes in to run forTeddy…who probably would havebeen royally roasted by themanager ifhe’dbeenanyonebutTeddy.AndDickGernertsteps in, .425 sluggingpercentage or something likeit.Thecrowd’sgoingapeshit,the flag’s blowing out, thefrank wrappers are swirlingaround, women are goddamcrying, men are yelling forJersey Joe to yank The Doo

and put in Stew Rankin—hewas what people would callthe closer today, althoughback thenhewas justknownasashort-reliefspecialist.

But Joe crossed hisfingersandstuckwithDusen.

Thecountgoesthreeandtwo,right?Andersonoffwiththe pitch, right? Because hecanrunlikethewindandtheguybehindtheplate’safirst-game rook. Gernert, thatmightyman,getsjustundera

curve and beeps it—notbloopsitbutbeepsit—behindthe pitcher’smound, just outof TheDoo’s reach.He’s onit like a cat, though.Anderson’s around third andThe Doo throws home fromhis knees. That thing was afuckingbullet.

I know what you’rethinking I’m thinking, Mr.King,butyou’redeadwrong.Itnevercrossedmymindthatour new rookie catcher was

going to get busted up likeFaradayandhaveaniceone-game career in the bigs. Forone thing, Billy AndersonwasnomooselikeBigKlew;more of a ballet dancer. Foranother…well…the kid wasbetter thanFaraday. I think IknewthatthefirsttimeIsawhim,sittingonthebumperofhis beshitted old truck withhis wore-out gear stored intheback.

Dusen’s throw was low

but on the money. The kidtookitbetweenhislegs,thenpivotedaround,andIseenhewasholdingout just themitt.I just had time to think ofwhat a rookie mistake thatwas, how he forgot that oldsaying two hands forbeginners, how Andersonwas going to knock the balllooseandwe’dhavetotrytowinthegameinthebottomofthe ninth. But then the kidloweredhis leftshoulder like

a football lineman. I neverpaid attention to his freehand,becauseIwasstaringatthat outstretched catcher’smitt,justlikeeveryoneelseinOld Swampy that day. So Ididn’t exactly see whathappened, and neither didanybodyelse.

WhatIsawwasthis:thekid whapped the glove onAnderson’s chest while hewasstill threefullstepsfromthe dish. Then Anderson hit

the kid’s lowered shoulder.He went up and over andlanded behind the lefthandbatter’s box. The umpirelifted his fist in theout sign.ThenAndersonstartedtoyelland grab his ankle. I couldhearitfromthefarendofthedugout, so you know itmusthave been good yelling,because those Opening Dayfanswereroaringlikeaforce-ten gale. I could see thatAnderson’s left pants cuff

was turning red, and bloodwas oozing out between hisfingers.

Can I have a drink ofwater? Justpour someoutofthat plastic pitcher, wouldyou? Plastic pitchers is allthey give us for our rooms,you know; no glass pitchersallowedinthezombiehotel.

Ah, that’s good. Been along time since I talked somuch,andIgotalotmoretosay. You bored yet? No?

Good.Meneither.Havingthetimeofmylife,awfulstoryornot.

Anderson didn’t playagain until ’58, and ’58 washis last year—Boston gavehimhisunconditional releasehalfway through the season,andhecouldn’tcatchonwithanyone else. Because hisspeed was gone, and speedwas really all he had to sell.Thedocssaidhe’dbegoodasnew,theAchillestendonwas

only nicked, not cut all theway through, but it was alsostretched,andIimaginethat’swhatfinishedhim.Baseball’sa tender game, you know;people don’t realize. And itisn’t only catchers who gethurtincollisionsattheplate.

After the game, DannyDoo grabs the kid in theshowerandyells:“I’mgonnabuyyouadrinktonight,rook!In fact, I’m gonna buy youten!” And then he gives his

highestpraise:“Youhungthefuckinthere!”

“Ten drinks, because Ihung the fuck in there,” thekidsays,andTheDoolaughsand claps him on the backlike it’s the funniest thingheeverheard.

But then Pinky Higginscomes storming in. He wasmanaging the Red Sox thatyear, which was a thanklessjob;thingsonlygotworseforPinky and the Sox as thesummerof’57crawledalong.Hewasmadashell,chewingawadoftobaccosohardandfast the juice squirted fromboth sides of his mouth andran down his chin. He saidthe kid had deliberately cutAnderson’s ankle when they

collided at the plate. SaidBlakely must have done itwith his fingernails, and thekid should be put out of thegame for it. This was prettyrich, coming from a manwhose motto was, “Spikeshighandletemdie!”

I was sitting in Joe’sofficedrinkingabeer, so thetwoof us listened toPinky’srant together. I thought theguywasnuts,andIcouldseefrom Joe’s face that Iwasn’t

alone.Joe waited until Pinky

randown,thensaid:“Iwasn’twatching Anderson’s foot. Iwas watching to see ifBlakely made the tag andheld onto the ball.Which hedid.”

“Gethiminhere,”Pinkyfumes.“Iwanttosayittohisface.”

“Be reasonable, Pink,”Joesays.“WouldIbeinyouroffice doing a tantrum if it

hadbeenBlakelyallcutup?”“Itwasn’tspikes!”Pinky

yells.“Spikesareapartofthegame!Scratchingsomeoneuplike a…a girl at a kickballmatch…that ain’t! AndAnderson’sinthegamesevenyears! He’s got a family tosupport!”

“Soyou’resayingwhat?My catcher ripped yourpinch-runner’s ankle openwhilehewastagginghimout—and tossing him over his

goddam shoulder, don’tforget—andhediditwithhisnails?”

“That’s what Andersonsays,” Pinky tells him.“Andersonsayshefeltit.”

“Maybe Blakelystretched Anderson’s footwithhisnails,too.Isthatit?”

“No,”Pinkyadmits.Hisfacewasall redby then,andnot just from beingmad. Heknew how it sounded. “Hesays that happened when he

camedown.”“Begging the court’s

pardon,” I says, “butfingernails?This isa loadofcrap.”

“I want to see the kid’shands,” Pinky says. “Youshow me or I’ll lodge agoddamprotest.”

I thought Joewould tellPinkytoshitinhishat,buthedidn’t.Heturnedtome.“Tellthe kid to come in here.Tellhim he’s gonna show Mr.

Higginshisnails, just likehedid to his first-grade teacherafter the Pledge ofAllegiance.”

I got the kid. He camewillinglyenough,althoughhewasjustwearingatowel,anddidn’tholdback showinghisnails.Theywereshort,clean,not broken, not even bent.Therewerenoblood-blisters,either, like there might be ifyou really set them insomeone and raked with

them. One little thing I didhappen to notice, although Ididn’t think anything of it atthe time: the Band-Aid wasgone from his second finger,andIdidn’tseeanysignofahealingcutwhereithadbeen,justcleanskin,pinkfromtheshower.

“Satisfied?” Joe askedPinky.“Orwouldyouliketocheck his ears for potato-dirtwhileyou’reatit?”

“Fuck you,” Pinky says.

He got up, stamped over tothedoor,spathiscudintothewastepaper basket there—splut!—and then he turnsback.“Myboysaysyourboycut him. Says he felt it.Andmyboydon’tlie.”

“Your boy tried to be ahero with the game on theline instead of stopping atthird and giving Piersall achance. He’d tell you themoon was made of hisfather’s come-stained

skivviesifit’dgethimoffthehookforthat.Youknowwhathappened and so do I.Anderson got tangled in hisown spikes and did it tohimself when he wentwhoopsy-daisy. Now get outofhere.”

“There’ll be a paybackforthis,DiPunno.”

“Yeah? Well it’s thesame gametime tomorrow.Gethereearly.”

Pinky left, already

tearing off a fresh piece ofchew. Joe drummed hisfingers beside his ashtray,thenaskedthekid:“Nowthatit’s just us chickens, did youdo anything to Anderson?Tellmethetruth.”

“No.” Not a bit ofhesitation. “I didn’t doanything toAnderson.That’sthetruth.”

“Okay,” Joe said, andstood up. “Always nice toshoot the shit after a game,

but I think I’ll go on homeand have a drink. Then Imight fuck my wife on thesofa. Winning on OpeningDayalwaysmakesmypeckerstand up.” Then he said,“Kid, you played the gamethe way it’s supposed to beplayed.Goodforyou.”

He left.Thekidcinchedhis towel around his waistandstartedbacktothelockerroom. I said, “I see thatshavingcut’sallbetter.”

He stopped dead in thedoorway, and although hisbackwas tome, Iknewhe’ddone something out there.The truthwas in theway hewas standing. I don’t knowhowtoexplainitbetter,but…Iknew.

“What?” Like he didn’tgetme,youknow.

“The shaving cut onyourfinger.”

“Oh, that shaving cut.Yuh,allbetter.”

And out he sails…although,rubethathewas,heprobably didn’t have a cluewhere hewasgoing.Luckilyfor him, Kerwin McCaslinhadgothimaplacetostayinthe better part of Newark.Hardtobelieveasitmightbe,Newarkhadabetterpartbackthen.

Okay, second game ofthe season. Dandy DaveSisler on the mound forBoston, and our new catcher

is hardly settled into thebatter’s box before Sislerchucks a fastball at his head.Would have knocked hisfucking eyes out if it hadconnected, but he snaps hishead back—didn’t duck ornothing—and then just cockshis bat again, looking atSisler as if to say, Go on,mac,doitagainifyouwant.

The crowd’s screaminglike mad and chanting RUNIM! RUN IM! RUN IM! The

umpdidn’t runSisler, buthegotwarnedanda cheerwentup. I looked over and sawPinky in the Boston dugout,walking back and forth withhis arms folded so tight helooked like he was trying tokeepfromexploding.

Sisler walks twicearound the mound, soakingupthefan-love—boyohboy,they wanted him drawn andquartered—and then he wentto the rosin bag, and then he

shookoff twoor three signs.Taking his time, you know,letting it sink in. The kid allthe time just standing therewith his bat cocked,comfortable as old Tillie. SoDandyDavethrowsaget-me-over fastball right downBroadwayandthekidlosesitin the left field bleachers.Tidings was on base andwe’reuptwotonothing.Ibetthepeopleover inNewYorkheardthenoisefromSwampy

when the kid hit that homerun.

I thought he’d begrinning when he camearound third, but he lookedjust as serious as a judge.Under his breath he’smuttering,“Gotitdone,Billy,showedthatbusherandgotitdone.”

The Doo was the firstonetograbhiminthedugoutanddancedhimrightintothebat-rack.Helpedhimpickup

thespilledlumber,too,whichwas nothing like DannyDusen, who usually thoughthewasabovesuchthings.

After beating Bostontwice and pissing off PinkyHiggins, we went down toWashington and won threestraight.Thekidhitsafeinallthree, including his secondhome run, but GriffithStadium was a depressingplace to play, brother; youcould have gunned down a

running rat in the box seatsbehind home plate and nothad to worry about hittingany fans. Goddam Senatorsfinished over forty gamesback that year. Forty! Jesusfuckingwept.

The kid was behind theplate for The Doo’s secondstart down there and damnnear caught ano-hitter inhisfifth game wearing a bigleagueuniform.PeteRunnelsspoiled it in the ninth—hit a

double with one out. Afterthat, the kid went out to themound, and that timeDannydidn’t wave him back. Theydiscussed it a little bit, andthen The Doo gave anintentional pass to the nextbatter,LouBerberet(seehowit all comes back?). ThatbroughtupBobUsher,andhehit into a double play just assweetasyoucouldeverwant:ballgame.

ThatnightTheDooand

the kidwent out to celebrateDusen’s one hundred andninety-eighth win. When Isawournewestchickthenextday, he was very badlyhungover,butheborethatascalmly as he bore havingDaveSislerchuckathishead.Iwasstartingtothinkwehada real big leaguer on ourhands, and wouldn’t beneeding Hubie Rattner afterall.Oranybodyelse.

“You and Danny are

gettingprettytight,Iguess,”Isays.

“Tight,” he agrees,rubbinghistemples.“MeandThe Doo are tight. He saysBilly’shisgoodluckcharm.”

“Doeshe,now?”“Yuh. He says if we

stick together, he’ll wintwenty-five and they’ll havetogivehimtheCyYoung.”

“Thatright?”“Yessir, that’s right.

Granny?”

“What?”He was giving me that

wide blue stare of his:twenty-twentyvisionthatsaweverything and understoodpracticallynothing.BythenIknew he could hardly read,andtheonlymoviehe’deverseen wasBambi. He said hewentwiththeotherkidsfromOttershow or Outershow—whatever—and I assumed itwas his school. I was bothright and wrong about that,

but it ain’t really the point.The point is that he knewhow to play baseball—instinctively, I’d say—butotherwise he was ablackboard with nothingwrittenonit.

“What’saCyYoung?”That’s howhewas, you

see.We went over to

Baltimore for three beforegoing back home. Typicalspring baseball in that town,

which isn’t quite south ornorth; cold enough to freezethe balls off a brass monkeythe first day, hotter than hellthesecond,afinedrizzlelikeliquid ice the third. Didn’tmattertothekid;hehitinallthree games, making it eightstraight. Also, he stoppedanother runner at the plate.Welostthegame,butitwasahell of a stop. Gus Triandoswas the victim, I think. Heran headfirst into the kid’s

knees and just lay therestunned, three feet fromhome.Thekidput thetagonthe back of his neck just asgentle asMommypatting oilonBabyDear’ssunburn.

There was a picture ofthat put-out in the NewarkEveningNews,withacaptionreading Blockade BillyBlakelySavesAnotherRun.Itwas a good nickname andcaughtonwiththefans.Theyweren’t as demonstrative in

those days—nobody wouldhave come to YankeeStadium in ’57 wearing achef’s hat to support GarySheffield, I don’t think—butwhen we played our firstgame back at Old Swampy,some of the fans came incarrying orange road-signsreadingDETOURandROADCLOSED.

The signs might havebeen a one-day thing if twoIndianshadn’tgotthrownout

at the plate in our first gameback.ThatwasagameDannyDusen pitched, incidentally.Both of those put-outs werethe result of great throwsrather than great blocks, butthe rook got the credit,anyway, and I’d say hedeserved it. The guys werestartingtotrusthim,see?Andtheywanted towatchhimdoit. Baseball players are fans,too, and when someone’s ona roll, even the most hard-

heartedtrytohelp.Dusen got his hundred

andninety-ninththatday.Oh,and the kid went three forfour,includingahomerun,soit shouldn’t surprise you thatevenmorepeopleshowedupwith those signs for oursecond game againstCleveland.

By the third one, someenterprising fellow wasselling them out on TitanEsplanade, big orange

cardboard diamonds withblack letters: ROADCLOSED BY ORDER OFBLOCKADE BILLY. Someof the fans’d hold em upwhen Blockade Billy was atbat, and they’d all hold themupwhentheotherteamhadarunner on third. By the timetheYankees came to town—thiswas going on to the endof April—the whole stadiumwould flushorangewhen theBombers had a runner on

third,whichtheydidofteninthatseries.

Because the Yankeeskicked the living shit out ofusandtookoverfirstplace.Itwas no fault of the kid’s; hehit ineverygameand taggedout Bill Skowron betweenhomeand thirdwhen the luggot caught in a rundown.Skowron was a moose thesizeofBigKlew,andhetriedto flatten the kid, but it wasSkowron who went on his

ass, the kid straddling himwith a knee on either side.The photo of that one in thepaper made it look like theendof aBigTimeWrestlingmatchwithPrettyTonyBabafor once finishing offGorgeous George instead ofthe other way around. Thecrowd outdid themselveswaving those ROADCLOSED signs around. Itdidn’tseemtomatterthattheTitanshadlost;thefanswent

home happy because they’dseen our skinny catcherknock Mighty MooseSkowrononhisass.

Iseen thekidafterward,sitting naked on the benchoutsidetheshowers.Hehadabigbruisecomingonthesideof his chest, but he didn’tseemtominditatall.Hewasno crybaby. The sonofabitchwas too dumb to feel pain,some people said later; toodumb and crazy. But I’ve

known plenty of dumbplayersinmytime,andbeingdumb never stopped themfrom bitching over theirbooboos.

“How about all thosesigns,kid?”Iasked, thinkingI would cheer him up if heneededcheering.

“What signs?” he says,and I could see by thepuzzled lookonhis face thathe wasn’t joking a bit. Thatwas Blockade Billy for you.

Hewouldhavestoodinfrontof a semi if the guy behindthe wheel was driving downthe thirdbase line and tryingto score on him, butotherwise he didn’t have afuckingclue.

We played a two-gameseries with Detroit beforehitting the road again, andlostboth.DannyDoowasonthe mound for the secondone, and he couldn’t blamethekidforthewayitwent;hewas gone before the thirdinning was over. Sat in thedugout whining about thecoldweather(itwasn’tcold),the way Harringtonmisplayed a fly ball out inright (Harringtonwouldhave

neededrocketsonhisheelstoget to that one before itdropped),andthebadcallshegot from that sonofabitchWendersbehindtheplate.Onthat last one he might havehad a point. Hi Wendersdidn’t like The Doo, neverhad, ran him in twoballgames the year before.ButIdidn’tseeanybadcallsthat day, and I was standinglessthanninetyfeetaway.

The kid hit safe in both

games, including a home runand a triple. Nor did Dusenhold the hot bat against him,which would have been hisordinary behavior; he wasone of those guys whowanted fellows tounderstandtherewasonebigstaron theTitans, and it wasn’t them.But he liked the kid; reallyseemed to think the kid washis luckycharm.Andthekidliked him. They went bar-hopping after the game, had

about a thousand drinks andvisited a whorehouse tocelebrateTheDoo’sfirstlossoftheseason,andshowedupthenextdayforthetriptoKCpaleandshaky.

“The kid got laid lastnight,”Dooconfidedinmeaswe rode out to the airport inthe team bus. “I think itwashisfirsttime.That’sthegoodnews.Thebadnews is that Idon’tthinkheremembersit.”

We had a bumpy plane-

ride;mostofthemwerebackthen. Lousy prop-drivenbuckets, it’s a wonder wedidn’t all get killed likeBuddy Holly and the BigFucking Bopper. The kidspent most of the tripthrowingup in thecanat thebackoftheplane,whilerightoutside the door a bunch ofguys satplayingacey-deuceyand tossing him the usualfunny stuff: Get any onya?Want a fork and knife to cut

thatupalittle?Thenthenextdaythesonofabitchgoesfive-for-five at MunicipalStadium, including a pair ofjacks.

There was also anotherBlockadeBilly play; by thenhe could have taken out apatent. This time the victimwas Clete Boyer. Again itwas Blockade Billy downwiththeleftshoulder,andupand over Mr. Boyer went,landingflatonhisbackinthe

left batter’s box. There weresome differences, though.Therookusedbothhandsonthe tag, and there was nobloody foot or strainedAchilles tendon. Boyer justgotupandwalkedbacktothedugout, dusting his ass andshaking his head like hedidn’t quite know where hewas. Oh, and we lost thegameinspiteofthekid’sfivehits. Eleven to ten was thefinalscore,orsomething like

that. Ganzie Burgess’sknuckleball wasn’t dancingthatday;theAthleticsfeastedonit.

Wewon the next game,lost a squeaker on getawayday. The kid hit in bothgames,whichmadeitsixteenstraight. Plus nine putouts atthe plate. Nine in sixteengames! That might be arecord.Ifitwasinthebooks,thatis.Ifanyofthatmonth’srecordswereinthebooks.

Wewent toChicago forthree,andthekidhitinthosegames, too, making itnineteenstraight.Butdamnifwe didn’t lose all three.JerseyJoe lookedatmeafterthe last of those games andsaid, “I don’t buy that luckycharm stuff. I think Blakelysucksluck.”

“That ain’t fair and youknow it,” I said. “We weregoing good at the start, andnowwe’reinabadpatch.It’ll

evenout.”“Maybe,” he says. “Is

Dusenstilltryingtoteachthekidhowtodrink?”

“Yeah. They headed offtoTheLoopwithsomeotherguys.”

“But they’ll come backtogether,” Joe says. “I don’tget it. By nowDusen shouldhatethatkid.Doo’sbeenherefive years and I know hisMO.”

I did, too. When The

Doo lost, he had to lay theblameonsomebodyelse,likethat bum Johnny Harringtonor that busher bluesuit HiWenders. The kid’s turn inthe barrel was overdue, butDannywasstillclappinghimon the back and promisinghim he’d be Rookie of theGoddam Year. Not that TheDoo could blame the kid forthat day’s loss. In the fifthinning of his latestmasterpiece, Danny had

huckedonetothebackstopinthe fifth: high, wide, andhandsome. That scored one.Sothenhegetsmad,loseshiscontrol, and walks the nexttwo.ThenNellieFoxdoubleddowntheline.After thatTheDoogot it back together, butbythenitwastoolate;hewasonthehookandstayedthere.

We got a little well inDetroit,tooktwooutofthree.Thekidhitinallthreegamesand made another one of

those amazing home-platestands. Then we flew home.By then the kid from theDavenport Cornholers wasthe hottest goddam thing inthe American League. Therewas talk of him doing aGillettead.

“That’sanadI’d like tosee,” SiBarbarino said. “I’mafanofcomedy.”

“Then you must lovelooking at yourself in themirror,” Critter Hayward

said.“You’reacard,”Sisays.

“WhatImeanisthekidain’tgotnowhiskers.”

There never was an ad,of course. Blockade Billy’scareer as a baseball playerwas almost over. We justdidn’tknowit.

We had three scheduledat homewith theWhiteSox,but the first one was awashout. The Doo’s old palHi Wenders was the umpire

crew chief, and he gave methe news himself. I’d got toTheSwampearlybecausethetrunkswithourroaduniformsin them got sent to Idlewildby mistake and I wanted tomake sure they’d beentrucked over. We wouldn’tneed them for a week, but Iwas never easy in my minduntil such things were takencareof.

Wenderswassittingonalittle stool outside the

umpire’s room, reading apaperback with a blond instep-insonthecover.

“That your wife, Hi?” Iasks.

“Mygirlfriend,”hesays.“Go on home, Grannie.Weatherforecastsaysthatbythree it’s gonna be comingdown in buckets. I’m justwaiting for DiPunno andLopeztogetheresoIcancallthegame.”

“Okay,” I says.

“Thanks.” I startedawayandhecalledafterme.

“Grannie, is thatwonder-kid of yours all rightinthehead?Becausehetalksto himself behind the plate.Whispers. Never fuckingshutsup.”

“He’s no Quiz Kid, buthe’s not crazy, if that’swhatyou mean,” I said. I waswrong about that, but whoknew? “What kind of stuffdoeshesay?”

“I couldn’t hear muchthe one time I was behindhim—the second gameagainst Boston—but I knowhetalksabouthimself.Inthatwhat do you call it, thirdperson. He says stuff like ‘Ican do it, Billy.’ And onetime,whenhedroppedafoultip that woulda been strikethree, he goes, ‘I’m sorry,Billy.’”

“Well, so what? Til Iwas five, I had an invisible

friend named Sheriff Pete.MeandSheriffPeteshotupalotofminingtownstogether.”

“Yeah,butBlakelyain’tfive anymore. Unless he’sfive up here.” Wenders tapsthesideofhisthickskull.

“He’s apt tohave a fiveas the first number in hisbatting average before long,”I says. “That’s all I careabout. Plus he’s a hell of astopper. You have to admitthat.”

“I do,” Wenders says.“That little cock-knocker hasno fear. Another sign thathe’snotallthereinthehead.”

I wasn’t going to listentoanumpirerundownoneofmy players any more thanthat,soIchangedthesubjectand asked him—joking butnot joking—if he was goingto call the game tomorrowfair and square, even thoughhis favorite Doo-Bug wasthrowing.

“Ialwayscall it fairandsquare,” he says. “Dusen’s aconceited glory-hog who’sgot his spot all pickedout inCooperstown, he’ll do ahundred things wrong andnever take the blame once,and he’s an argumentativesonofabitchwhoknowsbetterthan to start in with me,because I won’t stand for it.That said, I’ll call it straight-up, just like I always do. Ican’tbelieveyou’dask.”

And I can’t believeyou’d sit there scratchingyour ass and calling ourcatcher next door to acongenital idiot, I thought,butyoudid.

I took my wife out todinnerthatnight,andwehada very nice time. Danced toLester Lannon’s band, as Irecall.Gotalittleromanticinthetaxiafterward.Sleptwell.I didn’t sleep well for quitesome time afterward; lots of

baddreams.Danny Dusen took the

ball inwhatwas supposed tobe the afternoon half of atwinighter,buttheworldasitapplied to the Titans hadalready gone to hell; we justdidn’t know it. No one didexcept for Joe DiPunno. Bythe time night fell, we knewwe were fucked for theseason, because our firsttwenty-two games werealmost surely going to be

erasedfromtherecordbooks,along with any officialacknowledgement ofBlockadeBillyBlakely.

I got in late because oftraffic, but figured it didn’tmatter because the uniformsnafuwassortedout.Mostofthe guys were already there,dressing or playing poker orjust sitting around shootingthe shit. Dusen and the kidwereoverinthecornerbythecigarettemachine,sittingina

couple of folding chairs, thekidwithhisuniformpantson,Dusen still wearing nothingbut his jock—not a prettysight. I went over to get apackofWinstonsandlistenedin.Dannywasdoingmostofthetalking.

“That fucking Wendershatesmyass,”hesays.

“Hehatesyourass,” thekid says, then adds: “Thatfucker.”

“You bet he is. You

think hewants to be the onebehind the plate when I getmytwohundredth?”

“No?”thekidsays.“You bet he don’t! But

I’mgoingtowintodayjusttospite him.And you’re gonnahelpme,Bill.Right?”

“Right. Sure. Bill’sgonnahelp.”

“He’ll squeeze like amotherfucker.”

“Will he? Will hesqueezelikeamotherf—”

“I just said he will. Soyoupulleverythingback.”

“I’ll pull everythingback.”

“You’re my good luckcharm,Billy-boy.”

And the kid, grinning:“I’myourgoodluckcharm.”

“Yeah.Nowlisten…”Itwas funnyandcreepy

at the same time. The Doowas intense—leaningforward, eyes flashing whilehe talked. Everything

Wenders had said about himwastrue,butheleftonethingout: The Doo was acompetitor.HewantedtowinthewayBobGibsondid.LikeGibby, he’d do anything hecouldgetawaywith tomakethathappen.Andthekidwaseatingitupwithaspoon.

Ialmostsaidsomething,becauseIwantedtobreakupthat connection. Talkingaboutittoyou,Ithinkmaybemy subconscious mind had

already put a lot of ittogether. Maybe that’sbullshit,butIdon’tthinkso.

In any case, I left themalone, just got my butts andwalked away. Hell, if I’dopened my bazoo, Dusenwould have toldme to put asock in it,anyway.Hedidn’tliketobeinterruptedwhenhewasholding court, andwhileImightnothavegivenmuchof a shit about that on anyotherday,youtendtoleavea

guy alone when it’s his turnto toe the rubber in front ofthe forty thousand peoplewho are paying his salary.Expecially when he’s up forthebigtwo-double-zero.

I went over to Joe’soffice to get the lineup card,but the office door was shutandtheblindsweredown,analmost unheard-of thing on agame day. The slats weren’tclosed, so I peeked through.Joe had the phone to his ear

andonehandoverhiseyes.Iknocked on the glass. Hestartedsohardhealmost fellout of his chair, then lookedaround. And I saw he wascrying.Ineversawhimcryinmy life, not before or after,but he was crying that day.Hisfacewaspaleandhishairwaswild—what littlehairhehad.

Hewavedmeaway,thenwent back to talking on thephone. I started across the

locker room to the coaches’office, which was really theequipment room. Halfwaythere I stopped. The bigpitcher-catcher conferencehad broken up, and the kidwas pulling on his uniformshirt, the one with the bigblue19.AndIsawtheBand-Aid was back on the secondfingerofhisrighthand.

Iwalked over and put ahand on his shoulder. Hesmiled at me. The kid had a

real sweet smile when heused it. “Hi, Granny,” hesays. But his smile began tofade when he saw I wasn’tsmilingback.

“Youallreadytoplay?”Iasked.

“Sure.”“Good.ButIwanttotell

you something first. TheDoo’sahellofapitcher,butas a human being he ain’tevergoingtogetpastDoubleA. He’d walk on his

grandmother’sbrokenbacktoget a win, and you matter ahell of a lot less to him thanhisgrandmother.”

“I’m his good luckcharm!” he saysindignantly…but underneaththe indignation, he lookedreadytocry.

“Maybeso,”Isaid,“butthat’s not what I’m talkingabout.There’ssuchathingasgetting too pumped up for agame.Alittleisgood,buttoo

much and a fellow’s apt tobustwideopen.”

“Idon’tgetyou.”“Ifyoupoppedandwent

flat like a bad tire, The Doowouldn’tgivemuchofashit.He’djustfindhimselfabrandnewluckycharm.”

“You shouldn’t talk likethat!Himandme’sfriends!”

“I’m your friend, too.More important, I’m one ofthecoachesonthisteam.I’mresponsible for your welfare,andI’lltalkanygoddamwayI want, especially to a rook.

And you’ll listen. Are youlistening?”

“I’mlistening.”I’m sure hewas, but he

wasn’t looking; he’d cast hiseyes down and sullen redroseswerebloomingonthosesmooth little-boy cheeks ofhis.

“Idon’tknowwhatkindofarigyou’vegotunderthatBand-Aid,andIdon’twanttoknow.All I know is I saw itin the first game you played

for us, and somebody gothurt. I haven’t seen it since,and I don’t want to see ittoday. Because if you gotcaught, it’d be you caught.NotTheDoo.”

“I just cut myself,” hesays,allsullen.

“Right. Shaving. But Idon’t want to see it on yourfingerwhenyougooutthere.I’m looking after your ownbestinterests.”

WouldIhavesaidthatif

Ihadn’t seenJoesoupsethewascrying?Iliketothinkso.I like to think I was alsolookingafterthebestinterestsof the game, which I lovedthen and now. VirtualBowling can’t hold a candle,believeme.

Iwalkedawaybeforehecould say anything else.AndI didn’t look back. Partlybecause I didn’t want to seewhat was under the Band-Aid,mostly because Joewas

standing in his office door,beckoning to me. I won’tsweartherewasmoregrayinhis hair, but I won’t sweartherewasn’t.

I came into the officeandclosedthedoor.Anawfulidea occurred tome. Itmadea kind of sense, given thelookonhis face. “Jesus, Joe,is it yourwife?Or the kids?Didsomethinghappentooneofthekids?”

He started, like I’d just

woken him out of a dream.“Jessie and the kids are fine.ButGeorge…ohGod. Ican’tbelieve it. This is such amess.” And he put the heelsofhispalmsagainsthiseyes.Asoundcameoutofhim,butit wasn’t a sob. It was alaugh. The most terriblefucked-uplaughIeverheard.

“What is it?Whocalledyou?”

“I have to think,” hesays—but not to me. It was

himself hewas talking to. “IhavetodecidehowI’mgoingto…” He took his hands offhis eyes, and he seemed alittle more like himself.“You’re managing today,Grannie.”

“Me? I can’t manage!The Doo’d blow his stack!He’s going for his twohundredthagain,and—”

“None of that matters,don’tyousee?Notnow.”

“What—”

“Just shut up and makeouta lineupcard.Asfor thatkid…” He thought, thenshookhishead.“Hell,lethimplay, why not? Shit, bat himfifth. Iwas gonnamove himup,anyway.”

“Of course he’s gonnaplay,” I said. “Who else’dcatchDanny?”

“Oh, fuck DannyDusen!”hesays.

“Cap—Joey—tell mewhathappened.”

“No,” he says. “I got tothinkabout it first.What I’mgoingtosaytotheguys.Andthereporters!”Heslappedhisbrow as if this part of it hadjust occurred to him.“Thoseoverbred assholes! Shit!”Then, talking to himselfagain:“But let theguyshavethis game. They deserve thatmuch. Maybe the kid, too.Hell,maybe he’ll bat for thecycle!” He laughed somemore, then went upside his

own head to make himselfstop.

“Idon’tunderstand.”“You will. Go on, get

out of here. Make any oldlineup you want. Pull thenamesoutofahat,whydon’tyou? It doesn’t matter. Onlymakesureyoutelltheumpirecrewchiefyou’rerunningtheshow. I guess that’d beWenders.”

I walked down the hallto the umpire’s room like a

man in a dream and toldWenders that I’d be makingout the lineup and managingthegame from the thirdbasebox. He asked me what waswrong with Joe, and I saidJoewassick.

ThatwasthefirstgameImanaged until I got theAthletics in ’63,and itwasashort one, because as youprobably know if you’vedone your research, HiWendersranmeinthesixth.I

don’t remember much aboutit,anyway.IhadsomuchonmymindthatIfeltlikeamanin a dream. But I did havesenseenoughtodoonething,and that was to check thekid’srighthandbeforeheranoutonthefield.TherewasnoBand-Aid on the secondfinger, and no cut, either. Ididn’t even feel relieved. Ijust kept seeing JoeDiPunno’s red eyes andhaggardmouth.

That was Danny Doo’slast good game ever, and henever did get his twohundred. He tried to comeback in ‘58, but it was nogood.He claimed the doublevisionwasgoneandmaybeitwas true, but he couldn’thardly get the pill over theplate anymore. No spot inCooperstown for Danny. Joewas right: that kid did suckluck.

But that afternoon Doo

was the best I ever sawhim,hisfastballhopping,hiscurvesnappinglikeawhip.Forthefirst four innings theycouldn’ttouchhimatall.Justwavethestickandtakeaseat,fellows.Hestruckoutsixandthe rest were infield ground-outs. Only trouble was,Kinder was almost as good.We’d gotten one lousy hit, atwo-outdoublebyHarringtoninthebottomofthethird.

Now it’s the top of the

fifth. The first batter goesdowneasy.ThenWaltDropocomes up, hits one deep intotheleftfieldcorner,andtakesofflikeabatoutofhell.Thecrowd sawHarry Keene stillchasing the ball whileDropo’s legging for second,and they understood it couldbeaninside-the-parkjob.Thechanting started. Only a fewvoicesatfirst, thenmoreandmore. Getting deeper andlouder. It put a chill up me

from the crack of my ass tothenapeofmyneck.

“Bloh-KADE! Bloh-KADE!Bloh-KADE!”

Like that. The orangesignsstartedgoingup.Peoplewereontheirfeetandholdingthem over their heads. Notwaving them like usual, justholdingthemup.Ihaveneverseenanythinglikeit.

“Bloh-KADE! Bloh-KADE!Bloh-KADE!”

At first I thought there

wasn’tasnowball’schanceinhell; by then Dropo’ssteamingforthirdwithallthestops pulled out. But Keenepouncedontheballandmadea perfect throw to Barbarinoat short. The rook,meanwhile,isstandingonthethird-base sideofhomeplatewith his glove held out,makingatarget,andSihitthegoddampocket.

The crowd’s chanting.Dropo’s sliding, spikes up.

The kid don’tmind; he goeson his knees and dives overem. Hi Wenders was wherehe was supposed to be—thattime, at least—leaning overtheplay.Acloudofdustgoesup…and out of it comesWenders’s upraised thumb.“Yerrrr…OUT!” Mr. King,the fans went nuts. WaltDropo did, too. He was upand dancing around like acoked-upkidatarecordhop.Hecouldn’tbelieveit.

The kid was scrapedhalfway up his left forearm,not bad, just bloodsweat, butenough for old Bony Dadier—he was our trainer—tocome out and slap a Band-Aid on it. So the kid got hisBand-Aid after all, only thisonewaslegit.Thefansstayedontheirfeetduringthewholemedical consultation, wavingtheir ROAD CLOSED signsand chanting “Bloh-KADE!Bloh-KADE!” like they

wouldn’t ever get enough ofit.

The kid didn’t seem tonotice. He was in anotherworld.Hewasthewholetimehe was with the Titans, nowthat I thinkof it.He just puton his mask, went backbehindtheplate,andsquatteddown. Business as usual.BubbaPhillipscameup,linedout to Lathrop at first, andthatwasthefifth.

Whenthekidcameupin

the bottom of the inning andstruck out on three pitches,the crowd still gave him astanding O. That time henoticed, and tipped his capwhen he went back to thedugout.Onlytimeheeverdidit.Notbecausehewassnottybut because…well, I alreadysaid it. That other worldthing.

Okay, top of the sixth.Over fifty years later and IstillgetaredasswhenIthink

of it. Kinder’s up first andloops out to third, just like apitcher should. Then comesLuis Aparicio, Little Louie.The Doo winds and fires.Apariciofoulsitoffhighandlazy behind home plate, onthe third base side of thescreen. The kid throws awayhismask and sprints after it,head back and glove out.Wenders trailed him, but notclose like he should havedone.Hedidn’t think thekid

had a chance. It was lousygoddamumping.

The kid’s off the grassand on the track, by the lowwallbetweenthefieldandthebox seats. Neck craned.Looking up. Two dozenpeople in those first- andsecond-row box seats alsolooking up, most of themwavingtheirhandsintheair.This is one thing I don’tunderstand about fans andnever will. It’s a fucking

baseball,fortheloveofGod!Anitemthatsoldforseventy-five cents back then.Everybodyknewit.Butwhenfans see one in reach at theballpark, they turn intofucking Danny Doo in ordertogettheirhandsonit.Nevermind standing back andlettingthemantryingtocatchit—their man, and in a tightballgame—dohisjob.

Isawitall.Sawitclear.That mile-high popup came

downonoursideofthewall.Thekidwasgoingtocatchit.Then some long-armed bozoinoneofthoseTitansjerseysthey sold on the Esplanadereachedover and ticked it sotheballbouncedoff theedgeof thekid’s glove and fell totheground.

I was so sure Wenderswould call Aparicio out—itwas clear interference—thatatfirstIcouldn’tbelievewhatI was seeing when hegestured for the kid to gobackbehindtheplateandforAparicio to resume the box.When I got it, I ran out,wavingmy arms. The crowdstarted cheering me andbooingWenders,which isnoway to win friends andinfluencepeoplewhenyou’re

arguing a call, but I was toogoddam mad to care. Iwouldn’t have stopped ifMahatmaGandhihadwalkedout on the field butt-nakedandurgingustomakepeace.

“Interference!” Iyelled.“Clear as day, clear as thenoseonyourface!”

“Itwasinthestands,andthat makes it anyone’s ball,”Wenders says. “Go on backtoyourlittlenestandlet’sgetthisshowontheroad.”

The kid didn’t care; hewas talking to his pal TheDoo. That was all right. Ididn’tcarethathedidn’tcare.All I wanted at that momentwas to tear Hi Wenders afresh new asshole. I’m notordinarily an argumentativeman—alltheyearsImanagedtheA’s,Ionlygotthrownoutofgamestwice—butthatdayI would have made BillyMartinlooklikeapeacenik.

“You didn’t see it, Hi!

You were trailing too farback!Youdidn’tseeshit!”

“I wasn’t trailing and Isaw it all. Now get back,Granny.Iain’tkidding.”

“If you didn’t see thatlong-armed sonofabitch—”(Here a lady in the secondrow put her hands over herlittleboy’searsandpursedupher mouth at me in an oh-you-nasty-man look.)“—thatlong-armed sonofabitchreach out and tick that ball,

you were goddam trailing!JesusChrist!”

The man in the jerseystartsshakinghishead—who,me? not me!—but he’s alsowearing a big embarrassedsuckassgrin.Wenderssawit,knew what it meant, thenlooked away. “That’s it,” hesays to me. And in thereasonable voice that meansyou’re one smart crack fromdrinking a Rhinegold in thelocker room. “You’ve had

yoursay.Nowyoucaneithergoback to thedugoutoryoucan listen to the rest of thegameontheradio.Takeyourpick.”

I went back to thedugout. Aparicio stood backinwith a big shit-eating grinonhisface.Heknew,surehedid.Andmadethemostofit.Theguyneverhitmanyhomeruns,butwhenTheDoosentin a changeup that didn’tchange, Louie cranked it

high,wide, and handsome tothe deepest part of the park.Nosy Norton was playingcenter, and he never eventurnedaround.

Aparicio circled thebases, serene as the QueenMary coming into dock,while the crowd screamed athim, denigrated his relatives,and hurled hate down on HiWenders’s head. Wendersheardnoneofit,whichisthechief umpirely skill. He just

gotafreshballoutofhiscoatpocket and inspected it fordings and doinks. Watchinghimdothat,Ilostitentirely.Irushedout tohomeplateandstarted shaking both fists inhisface.

“That’s your run, youfuckingbusher!” I screamed.“Too fucking lazy to chaseafter a foul ball, and nowyou’ve got an RBI foryourself! Jam it up yourass!Maybe you’ll find your

glasses!”The crowd loved it. Hi

Wenders, not so much. Hepointed at me, threw histhumbbackoverhisshoulder,andwalkedaway.Thecrowdstarted booing and shakingtheir ROADCLOSED signs;somethrewbottles,cups,andhalf-eaten franks onto thefield.Itwasacircus.

“Don’t you walk awayfromme,youfatassblindlazysonofabitching bastard!” I

screamed, and chased afterhim. Someone from ourdugout grabbed me before IcouldgrabWenders,which Imeant todo. Ihad lost touchwithreality.

Thecrowdwaschanting“KILLTHEUMP!KILLTHEUMP!KILLTHEUMP!” I’llnever forget that, because itwas the same way they’dbeen chanting “Bloh-KADE!Bloh-KADE!”

“If your mother was

here, she’d be throwing shitat you, too, you bat-blindbusher!” I screamed, andthen they hauledme into thedugout. Ganzie Burgess, ourknuckleballer, managed thelast three innings of thathorrorshow. He also pitchedthe last two. Youmight findthat in the record-books, too.If there were any records ofthatlostspring.

The last thing I saw onthe field was Danny Dusen

and Blockade Billy standingonthegrassbetweentheplateand the mound. The kid hadhis mask tucked under hisarm.TheDoowaswhisperingin his ear. The kid waslistening—he always listenedwhen The Doo talked—buthewas lookingat the crowd,forty thousand fans on theirfeet, men, women, andchildren, yelling KILL THEUMP,KILLTHEUMP,KILLTHEUMP.

There was a bucket ofballs halfway down the hallbetween the dugout and thelocker room. I kicked it andsent balls rolling everywhichway. If I’d stepped ononeofthemandfallenonmyass, it would have been theperfect end to a perfectfucking afternoon at theballpark.

Joe was in the lockerroom, sitting on a benchoutside the showers.By then

he looked seventy instead ofjust fifty. There were threeotherguys in therewithhim.Two were uniformed cops.The third one was in a suit,butyouonlyhad to takeonelookathishard roastbeefofafacetoknowhewasacop,too.

“Gameover early?” thisoneaskedme.Hewassittingonafoldingchairwithhisbigold cop thighs spread andstraininghisseersuckerpants.

Thebluesuitswereononeofthe benches in front of thelockers.

“It is for me,” I said. IwasstillsomadIdidn’tevencareabout thecops.ToJoeIsaid, “Fucking Wenders ranme.I’msorry,Cap,butitwasa clear case of interferenceandthatlazysonofabitch—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Joesaid. “The game isn’t goingtocount.Idon’t thinkanyofourgamesaregoingtocount.

Kerwin’ll appeal to theCommissioner,ofcourse,but—”

“What are you talkingabout?”Iasked.

Joe sighed. Then helookedat theguy in the suit.“You tell him, DetectiveLombardazzi,” he said. “Ican’tbearto.”

“Does he need toknow?” Lombardazzi asked.He’s looking at me like I’msome kind of bug he’s never

seen before. It was a look Ididn’t need on top ofeverythingelse,butIkeptmymouth shut. Because I knewthree cops, one of them adetective, don’t show up inthe locker room of a MajorLeague baseball team if itisn’tgoddamserious.

“Ifyouwanthimtoholdthe other guys long enoughforyoutogettheBlakelykidout of here, I think he doesneedto,”Joesays.

From above us therecame a cry from the fans,followedbyagroan,followedby a cheer. None of us paidany attention to what turnedout to be the end of DannyDusen’s baseball career. Thecrywaswhenhegothitintheforehead by a Larry Dobyline drive. The groan waswhenhe fell on the pitcher’smound like a taggedprizefighter. And the cheerwas when he picked himself

up and gestured that he wasokay.Which hewas not, buthe pitched the rest of thesixth, and the seventh, too.Didn’t give up a run, either.Ganzie made him come outbefore the eighth when hesawTheDoowasn’twalkingstraight. Danny all the timeclaiming he was perfectlyokay, that the big purplegoose-eggraisingupoverhisleft eyebrow wasn’t nothing,he’d had lots worse, and the

kid saying the same: it ain’tnothing, it ain’t nothing.Little Sir Echo. Us down inthe clubhouse didn’t knowany of that, no more thanDusen knew he might’vebeen tagged worse in hiscareer, but it was the firsttime part of his brain hadsprungaleak.

“His name isn’tBlakely,” Lombardazzi says.“It’sEugeneKatsanis.”

“Katz-whatsis? Where’s

Blakely,then?”“William Blakely’s

dead. Has been for a month.Hisparents,too.”

I gaped at him. “Whatareyoutalkingabout?”

So he told me the stuffI’m sure you already know,Mr.King,butmaybeIcanfillinafewblanks.TheBlakelyslived in Clarence, Iowa, awide patch of not much anhour’sdrivefromDavenport.Made it convenient for Ma

andPa,becausetheycouldgoto most of their son’s minorleague games. Blakely had asuccessful farm; an eighthundredacrejob.Oneoftheirhiredmenwasn’tmuchmorethan a boy. His name wasGene Katsanis, an orphanwho’d grown up in TheOttershaw Christian HomeforBoys.Hewas no farmer,and not quite right in thehead, but he was a hell of abaseballplayer.

Katsanis and Blakelyplayedagainsteachotheronacouple of church teams, andtogether on the local BabeRuth team, which won thestate tournament all threeyears the twoof themplayedtogether,andoncewentasfarasthenationalsemis.Blakelywent to high school andstarredon that team, too, butKatsanis wasn’t schoolmaterial. Slopping-the-hogsmaterial and ballplaying

material is what he was,although he was neversupposed to be as good asBilly Blakely. Nobody somuch as considered such athing.Until it happened, thatis.

Blakely’s father hiredhim because the kid workedcheap, sure, but mostlybecause he had enoughnatural talent to keep Billysharp.Fortwenty-fivedollarsa week, the kid got a fielder

andabatting-practicepitcher.The old man got a cow-milker and a shit-shoveler.Not a bad deal, at least forthem.

Whatever you’ve foundin your research probablyfavorstheBlakelyfamily,amI right? Because they hadbeen around those parts forfour generations, becausethey were rich farmers, andbecause Katsanis wasn’tnothing but a state kid who

started life in a liquor cartonon a church step and hadseveralscrews looseupstairs.And why was that? Becausehewasborndumborbecausehegot the crapbeatenoutofhim three and four times aweek in that home before hegot old enough and bigenough to defend himself? Iknow a lot of the beatingscame because he had a habitof talking to himself—thatcame out in the newspapers

lateron.Katsanis and Billy

practiced just as hard onceBilly got into the Titans’farm-system—during theoff-season, you know, probablythrowing and hitting in thebarn once the snow got toodeep outside—but Katsanisgotkickedoff the local townteam, and wasn’t allowed togo to the Cornholers’workouts during Billy’ssecond season with them.

Duringhisfirstone,Katsanishad been allowed toparticipate in some of theworkouts, even in someintersquad games, if theywere a man shy. It was allpretty informal and loosey-goosey back then, not likenow when the insurancecompanies shit a brick if amajor leaguer so much asgrabsabatwithoutwearingahelmet.

What I think happened

—feel free to correct me ifyou know better—is that thekid,whateverotherproblemshemighthavehad,continuedto grow and mature as aballplayer. Blakely didn’t.Youseethatallthetime.TwokidswhobothlooklikeBabeFuckin’ Ruth in high school.Same height, same weight,same speed, same twenty-twenty peepers. But one ofthem is able to play at thenext level…and the next…

andthenext…whiletheotheronestartstofallbehind.Thismuch I did hear later: BillyBlakely didn’t start out as acatcher.Hegotswitchedfromcenterfieldwhenthekidwhowas catching broke his arm.And that kindof switch isn’ta realgoodsign. It’s like thecoach is sending a message:“You’ll do…but only untilsomeonebettershowsup.”

I think Blakely gotjealous, I think his old man

got jealous, and I thinkmaybeMomdid, too.Maybeespecially Mom, becausesports moms can be theworst. I think maybe theypulled a few strings to keepKatsanis from playinglocally,andfromshowingupfor the DavenportCocksuckers’workouts.Theycould have done it, becausethey were a wealthy, long-established Iowa family andGeneKatsaniswas a nobody

who grew up in an orphanhome. A Christian orphanhome that was probably hellonearth.

I think maybe Billy gotragging on the kid once toooftenandoncetoohard.Oritcould’ve been the dad or themom.Maybe itwas over theway he milked the cows, ormaybe he didn’t shovel theshit just right that one time,but I’ll bet the bottom linewas baseball and plain old

jealousy. The green-eyedmonster. For all I know, theCornholers’ manager toldBlakely he might be sentdown to Single A inClearwater, and getting sentdown a rung when you’reonly twenty—when you’resupposed to be going up theladder—is a damned goodsign that your career inorganizedbaseballisgoingtobeashortone.

But however it was—

and whoever—it was a badmistake. The kid could besweet when he was treatedright,weallknewthat,buthewasn’trightinthehead.Andhe could be dangerous. Iknew that even before thecops showed up, because ofwhat happened in the veryfirstgameoftheseason:BillyAnderson.

“The County SherifffoundallthreeBlakelysinthebarn,” Lombardazzi said.

“Katsanis slashed theirthroats.Sheriff said it lookedlikearazorblade.”

Ijustgapedathim.“What must have

happenedis this,”Joesaidina heavy voice. “KerwinMcCaslincalledaroundforabackup catcher when ourguys got hurt down inFlorida, and the manager oftheCornhuskerssaidhehadaboywhomightfillthebillforthreeorfourweeks,assuming

wedidn’tneedhimtohit foraverage. Because, he said,thiskidwouldn’tdothat.”

“Buthedid,”Isays.“Because he wasn’t

Blakely,” Lombardazzi says.“By then Blakely and hisparents must already havebeendeadacoupleofdays,atleast. The Katsanis kid waskeepinghouseallbyhimself.And not all his screws wereloose. He was smart enoughto answer the phone when it

rang. He took the call fromthe manager and said sure,Billy’dbeglad togo toNewJersey. And before he left—asBilly—hecalledaroundtothe neighbors and the feedstoredowntown.ToldemtheBlakelys had been calledaway on a family emergencyand he was taking care ofthings. Pretty smart for aloony,wouldn’tyousay?”

“He’s not a loony,” Itoldhim.

“Well,hecut thethroatsofthepeoplewhotookhiminand gave him a job, and hekilled all the cows so theneighborswouldn’thearthembawlingtobemilkedatnight,buthaveityourway.IknowtheDA’sgoingtoagreewithyou,becausehewants to seeKatsanis get the rope. That’show they do it in Iowa, youknow.”

I turned to Joe. “Howcould a thing like this

happen?”“Becausehewasgood,”

Joe said. “And because hewantedtoplayball.”

The kid had BillyBlakely’s ID, and this wasbackinthedayswhenpictureIDswereunheardof.Thetwokids matched up pretty well:blue eyes, dark hair, six feettall. But mostly, yeah—ithappenedbecausethekidwasgood. And wanted to playball.

“Good enough to getalmost amonth in the pros,”Lombardazzi said, and overour heads a cheer went up.Billy Blockade had justgottenhis lastbig-leaguehit:a homer. “Then, day beforeyesterday, the LP gas manwentouttotheBlakelyfarm.Others folks had been therebefore,buttheyreadthenoteKatsanis lefton thedoorandwentaway.Not thegasman.Hefilledthetanksbehindthe

barn,andthebarnwaswherethe bodies were—cows andBlakelys both. The weatherhad finally turnedwarm, andhe smelled em. Which isprettymuchthewayourstoryends. Now, your managerherewants him arrestedwithas little fuss as possible, andwith as little danger to theotherplayersonyourteamaspossible.That’sfinewithme.Soyourjob—”

“Your job is tohold the

rest of the guys in thedugout,” Jersey Joe says.“Send Blakely…Katsanis…down here on his own.He’llbe gonewhen the rest of theguys get to the locker room.Then we’ll try to sort thisclusterfuckout.”

“What the hell do I tellthem?”

“Teammeeting.Freeicecream. I don’t care.You justholdthemforfiveminutes.”

I says to Lombardazzi,

“No one tipped? No one?You mean no one heard theradio broadcasts and triedcalling Pop Blakely to sayhowgreat itwas that his kidwastearingupthebigs?”

“I imagine one or twomight have tried,”Lombardazzi said. “FolksfromIowadocometothebigcity from time to time, I’mtold, and I imagine a fewpeople visiting New Yorklisten to the Titans or read

abouteminthepaper—”“I prefer the Yankees,”

one of the bluesuits chimesin.

“If Iwant your opinion,I’ll rattle the bars in yourcage,” Lombardazzi said.“Until then, shut up and dieright.”

I looked at Joe, feelingsick. Getting a bad call andgetting run off the fieldduring my first managerialstint now seemed like the

veryleastofmyproblems.

“Gethiminherealone,”Joe said. “I don’t care how.The guys shouldn’t have tosee this.” He thought it overand added: “And the kidshouldn’t have to see themseeing it. Nomatter what hedid.”

If it matters—and Iknow it don’t—we lost thatgame two to one. All threerunswere solo shots.MinnieMinoso hit the game-winneroffofGanzieinthetopofthe

ninth.Thekidmadethefinalout.Hewhiffedinhisfirstat-bat as a Titan; hewhiffed inhislastone.Baseballisalsoagameofbalance.

But none of our guyscaredaboutthegame.WhenIgot up there, they weregathered around The Doo,whowassittingonthebenchand telling themhewas fine,goddammit,justalittledizzy.But he didn’t look fine, andour old excuse for a doc

looked pretty grave. Hewanted Danny down atNewarkGeneralforX-rays.

“Fuck that,” Doo says,“I just need a couple ofminutes. I’m all right, I tellyou. Jesus, Bones, cut me abreak.”

“Blakely,” I said. “Goon down to the locker room.Mr. DiPunno wants to seeyou.”

“Coach DiPunno wantsto see me? In the locker

room?Why?”“Something about the

RookieoftheMonthaward,”Isaid.It justpoppedintomyhead from nowhere. Therewasnosuch thingback then,butthekiddidn’tknowthat.

The kid looks at DannyDoo, and the Doo flaps hishandathim. “Goon,getoutof here, kid. You played agood game. Not your fault.You’re still lucky, and fuckanyone who says different.”

Thenhesays:“Allofyougetout of here. Gimme somebreathing-room.”

“Hold off on that,” Isays. “Joe wants to see himalone. Give him a little one-to-one congratulations, Iguess.Kid,don’twaitaround.Just—” Just scat was how Imeant to finish, but I didn’thave to.Blakely orKatsanis,he was already gone. Andyou know what happenedafterthat.

If the kid had gonestraight down the hall to theumpire’s room, he wouldhavegottencollared,becausethe locker room was on theway. Instead, he cut throughourbox-room,whereluggagewasstoredandwherewealsohad a couple of massagetables and a whirlpool bath.We’ll never know for surewhy he did that, but I thinkthe kid knew something waswrong.Crazyornot,hemust

have known the roof wasgoing to fall in on himeventually. In any case, hecame out on the far side ofthe locker room, walkeddowntotheump’sroom,andknockedonthedoor.Bythenthe rig he probably learnedhow to make in TheOttershaw Christian Homewas back on his secondfinger.Oneof theolderboysprobably showed him how,that’swhatIthink.Kid,ifyou

wanttostopgettingbeatenupall the time, make yourselfoneofthese.

He never put it back inhis locker after all, you see;just tucked it intohispocket.Andhedidn’tbotherwiththeBand-Aid after the game,which tells me he knew hedidn’t have anything to hideanymore.

He rapson theumpire’sdoor and says, “Urgenttelegram for Mr. Hi

Wenders.” Crazy but notstupid,yousee?Idon’tknowwhatwouldhavehappenedifoneof theotherumpson thecrew had opened up, but itwas Wenders himself, andI’m betting his life was overeven before he realized itwasn’t a Western Uniondelivery-boystandingthere.

Itwasarazorblade,see?Or a piece of one, anyway.When it wasn’t needed, itstayed inside a little tinband

like a kid’s pretend finger-ring.Onlywhenheballedhisright fist and pushed on theband with the ball of histhumb, that little sliver of abladepoppeduponaspring.WendersopenedthedoorandKatsanis swept it across hisneck and cut his throat withit.When I saw thepuddleofblood after he was takenaway in handcuffs—oh myGod, such a pool of it therewas—allIcouldthinkofwas

those forty thousand peoplescreaming KILL THE UMPthe same way they’d beenscreaming Bloh-KADE. Noone really means it, but thekid didn’t know that, either.Especially not after the Doopoured a lot of poison in hisearsabouthowWenderswasouttogetbothofthem.

Whenthecopsranoutofthe locker room, BillyBlockade was just standingtherewithbloodalldownthe

front of his white homeuniform and Wenders layingat his feet. Nor did he try tofight or slash when thebluesuitsgrabbedhim.No,hejuststoodtherewhisperingtohimself. “I got him, Doo. Igot him, Billy. He won’tmakenomorebadcallsnow.Igothimforallofus.”

That’s where the storyends,Mr.King—thepartofitIknow,atleast.AsfarastheTitans go, you could look it

up, asol’Caseyused to say:all thosegamescanceledout,andall thedoubleheadersweplayedtomakethemup.Howwe ended upwith old HubieRattnerbehind theplateafterall,andhowhebatted.185—well below what they nowcall theMendoza Line. HowDanny Dusen was diagnosedwith something called “anintercranialbleed”andhadtositout the restof the season.Howhetriedtocomebackin

1958—that was sad. Fiveoutings. In three of them hecouldn’tget theballover theplate. In the other two…doyou remember the last RedSox-Yankeesplayoffgamein2004? How Kevin Brownstarted for the Yankees, andthe Sox scored six goddamruns off him in the first twoinnings? That’s how DannyDoo pitched in ’58 when heactually managed to get theball over the dish. He had

nothing. And still, after allthat, we managed to finishaheadoftheSenatorsandtheAthletics. Only Jersey JoeDiPunno had a heart attackduring theWorld Series thatyear. Might have been thesamedaytheRussiansputtheSputnik up. They took himout of County Stadium on astretcher. He lived anotherfive years, but he was ashadowofhisformerselfandof course he never managed

again.

He said the kid suckedluck, and he was more rightthanheknew.Mr.King, thatkidwasablackholeforluck.

Forhimself,aswell.I’msureyouknowhowhis storyended—howhewas taken toEssex County Jail and heldthere forextradition.Howheswallowed a bar of soap andchoked todeathon it. Ican’tthink of a worse way to go.Thatwasanightmareseason,nodoubt,andstill,tellingyou

about it brought back somegood memories. Mostly, Ithink, of how Old Swampywould flush orange when allthose fans raised their signs:ROAD CLOSED BYORDER OF BLOCKADEBILLY.Yep,Ibetthefellowwhothoughtthoseupmadeagoddammint.Butyouknow,the people who bought themgot fair value. When theystoodupwiththemheldovertheirheads,theywerepartof

something bigger thanthemselves.Thatcanbeabadthing—just think of all thepeoplewho turnedout to seeHitler at his rallies—but thiswasagoodthing.Baseballisa good thing. Always was,alwayswillbe.

Bloh-KADE, bloh-KADE,bloh-KADE.

Still gives me a chill tothinkofit.Stillechoesinmyhead. That kid was the realthing, crazy or not, luck-

suckerornot.Mr.King,IthinkI’mall

talked out. Do you haveenough?Good.I’mglad.Youcomebackanytimeyouwant,but not on Wednesdayafternoon; that’s when theyhave their goddam VirtualBowling, and you can’t hearyourself think. Come onSaturday, why don’t you?There’sabunchofusalwayswatches the Game of theWeek. We’re allowed a

couple of beers, andwe rootlikemadbastards.Itain’tliketheolddays,butitain’tbad.

AbouttheAuthor

Stephen King has writtenmore than forty novels andtwohundredshortstories.Heis the recipient of the 2003National Book FoundationMedal for DistinguishedContribution to AmericanLetters and he also receivedthe O. Henry Award for his

story “TheMan in theBlackSuit.” He has written aboutbaseball before. “HeadDown,”anessayaboutLittleLeagueballfirstpublishedinThe New Yorker, can befound in his collectionNightmares andDreamscapes along with“BrooklynSummer,” apoemcelebrating Ebbets Fieldwhile the Dodgers stillconsidered it home. He andStewart O’Nan co-authored

Faithful, an account of the2004 season and the firstWorld Series Championshipenjoyed by the Boston RedSox and their diehard fans.He took less pleasure inreporting the 2009 Yankeesvictory over the Phillies forMcSweeney’s. Among hismost recent worldwidebestsellers are the novelsUnder theDome,DumaKey,Cell, and Lisey’s Story. InNovember2010Scribnerwill

publishFullDark,NoStars.