The Natural

Otto Zipp was above all this. He sat like a small mountain behind the rail in short left, reading the sports page of his newspaper. He looked neither right nor left, and if somebody tried to talk to him Otto gave him short shrift. Then when they least expected it, he would honk his horn and cry out in shrill tones, “Throw him to the hawks.” After that he went back to the sports page.

When the players began drifting into the clubhouse they were surprised to see Roy there. He was wearing his uniform and slowly polishing Wonderboy. The boys said hello and not much more. Flores looked at his feet. Some of them were embarrassed that they hadn’t gone to see him in the hospital. Secretly they were pleased he was here. Allie Stubbs even began to kid around with Olson. Roy thought they would not act so chipper if they knew he felt weak as piss and was dreading the game. The Judge was absolutely crazy to pay him thirty-five grand not to hit when he didn’t feel able to even lift a stick. He hoped Pop would guess how shaky he was and bench him. What a laugh that would be on the Judge — serve the bastard right. But when Pop came in, he didn’t so much as glance in Roy’s direction. He walked straight into his office and slammed the door, which suited Roy fine.

Pop had ordered everybody kept out of the clubhouse until after the game but Mercy weaseled in. All smiles, he approached Roy, asking for the true story of what went on at the party that night, but Red Blow saw him and told him to stay outside. Max had tried the same act in the hospital last week. The floor nurse caught him sneaking toward Roy’s room and had him dropped out on the front steps. After leaving the clubhouse Max sent in a note, inviting Roy to come out and make a statement. People were calling him a filthy coward and what did he intend to say to that? Roy gave out a one-word unprintable reply. Mercy shot in a second note. “You’ll get yours — M.M.” Roy tore it up and told the usher to take no more slop from him.

Pop poked his baldy out of his door and called for Roy. The players looked around uneasily. Roy got up and finally went into the office. For an insufferable time Pop failed to speak. He was unshaven, his face exuding gray stubble that made him look eighty years old. His thin frame seemed shrunken and his left eye was a little crossed with fatigue. Pop leaned back in his creaking swivel chair, staring with tears in his eyes over his half moons at the picture of Ma on his desk. Roy examined his fingernails.

Pop sighed, “Roy, it’s my own fault.”

It made Roy edgy. “What is?”

“This mess that we are now in. I am not forgetting I kept you on the bench for three solid weeks in June. If I hadn’t done that foolish thing we’da finished the season at least half a dozen games out in front.”

Roy offered no reply.

“But your own mistake was a bad one too.”

Roy nodded.

“A bad one, with the team right on top of hooking the pennant.” Pop shook his head. Yet he said he wouldn’t blame Roy too much because it wasn’t entirely of his own doing. He then apologized for not coming to see him in the hospital. He had twice set out to but felt too grumpy to be fit company for a sick man, so he hadn’t come. “It’s not you that I am mad at, Roy — it’s that blasted Memo. I shoulda pitched her out on her ass the first day she showed up at my door.”

Roy got up.

“Sit down.” Pop bent forward. “We can win today.” His cold breath smelled bad. Roy drew his head back.

“Well, we can, can’t we?”

He nodded.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I feel weak,” Roy said, “and I am not betting how I will hit today.”

Pop’s voice got kindly again. “I say we can win it whichever way you feel. Once you begin to play you will feel stronger. And if the rest of those birds see you hustling they will break their backs to win. All they got to feel is there is somebody on this team who thinks they can.”

Pop then related a story about a rookie third baseman he once knew, a lad named Mulligan. He was a fine hitter and thrower but full of hard luck all his life. Once he was beaned at the plate and had his skull cracked. He returned for spring practice the following year and the first day out he crashed into another fielder and broke his arm. On the return from that he was on first running to second on a hit and run play and the batter smacked the ball straight at him, breaking two ribs and dislocating a disc in his spine. After that he quit baseball, to everybody’s relief.

“He was just unlucky,” Pop said, “and there wasn’t a thing anybody could do to take the whammy off of him and change his hard luck. You know, Roy, I been lately thinking that a whole lot of people are like him, and for one reason or the other their lives will go the same way all the time, without them getting what they want, no matter what. I for one.”

Then to Roy’s surprise he said he never hoped to have a World Series flag. Pop swiveled his chair closer. “It ain’t in the cards for me — that’s all. I am wise to admit it to myself. It took a long time but I finally saw which way the arrow has been pointing.” He sighed deeply. “But that don’t hold true about our league pennant, Roy. That’s the next best thing and I feel I am entitled to it. I feel if I win it just this once — I will be satisfied. I will be satisfied, and win or lose in the Series, I will quit baseball forever.” He lowered his voice. “You see what it means to me, son?”

“I see.”

“Roy, I would give my whole life to win this game and take the pennant. Promise me that you will go in there and do your damndest.”

“I will go in,” Roy sighed.

After the practice bell had rung, when he reluctantly climbed up out of the dugout and shoved himself toward the batting cage with his bat in his hand, as soon as the crowd got a look at him the boo birds opened up, alternating with shrill whistles and brassy catcalls. Roy hardened his jaws, but then a rumble erupted that sounded like bubbling tubfuls of people laughing and sobbing. The noise grew to a roar, boiled over, and to his astonishment, drowned out the disapprovers in an ovation of cheering. Men flung their hats into the air, scaling straws and limp felts, pounded each other’s skulls, and cried themselves hoarse. Women screeched and ended up weeping. The shouting grew, piling reverberation upon reverberation, till it reached blast proportions. When it momentarily wore thin, Sadie Sutter’s solemn gong could be heard, but as the roar rose again, the gonging grew faint and died in the distance. Roy felt feverish. The applause was about over when he removed his cap to clean the sweat off his brow, and once more thunder rolled across the field, continuing in waves as he entered the cage. With teeth clenched to stop the chattering, he took three swipes at the ball, driving each a decent distance. At Pop’s urging he also went out onto the field to shag some flies. Again the cheers resounded, although he wished they wouldn’t. He speared a few flies in his tracks, dropped his glove and walked to the dugout. The cheers trailed him in a foaming billow, but above the surflike roar and the renewed tolling of Sadie’s gong, he could hear Otto Zipp’s shrill curses. The dwarf drew down on his head a chorus of hisses but thumbed his cherry nose as Roy passed by. Roy paid him no heed whatsoever, infuriating Otto.

The Pirates flipped through their practice and the game began. Pop had picked Fowler to start for the Knights. Roy figured then that he knew who was in this deal with him. Leave it to the Judge to tie the bag in the most economical way — with the best hitter and pitcher. He had probably asked Pop who he was intending to pitch and then went out and bought him, though no doubt paying a good deal less than the price Roy was getting. What surprised and shocked him was that Fowler could be so corrupt though so young and in the best of health. If he only had half the promise of the future Fowler had, he would never have dirtied his paws in this business. However, as he watched Fowler pitch during the first inning he wasn’t certain he was the one. His fast ball hopped today and he got rid of the first two Pirates with ease. Maybe he was playing it cagey first off, time would tell. Roy’s thoughts were broken up by the sound, and echo behind him, of the crack of a bat. The third man up had taken hold of one and it was arcing into deep left. Already Flores was hot footing it in from center. It occurred to Roy that although he had promised the Judge he wouldn’t hit, he had made no commitments as to catching them. Waving Flores aside, he ran several shaky steps and made a throbbing stab at the ball, spearing it on the half run for the third out. As he did so he noticed a movement up in the tower window and saw the Judge’s stout figure pressed against the window. He then recollected he hadn’t seen Memo since Saturday.