A Midsummer Madness

by Guy Franks

  Shake cut him off here. “That’s why you booted a double play ball in the eighth—because of Chernobyl?” asked Shake. “You’re anxiety over what’s going on four thousand miles away caused you to go O for four and cost us the game in the eighth—while the rest of us kept our heads in the game and played hard? That makes you, what, George Shultz and the rest of us schmucks?

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Sounds that way to me… Look, son, I know you’re concerned about Chernobyl. We all are. But I haven’t heard anything about millions dying. No one’s reporting that or saying that, so I don’t know where you’re getting numbers like that. My advice is to calm down and wait until they sort it out.”

  “You know the Soviets are lying. What the world knows about this—which is bad enough—I guarantee you is ten times worse. They know it and maybe even our intelligence agencies know it, but they’re not going to say anything for fear of causing panic.”

  “So now it’s a conspiracy theory. You’re not one of those conspiracy nuts who think the moon landing was staged or that fluoridated water is a plot to control our minds?

  “You can make fun all you want,” retorted Dane, his voice rising. “But look at the facts. That’s all I ask. Look at the facts and draw logical conclusions. The world’s in trouble.”

  “Of course it is. It was in trouble yesterday and it’ll be in trouble tomorrow. Learn to live with it. You’ve got to keep your perspective—keep your balance… ‘Give me the man that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him in my heart’s core.’”

  This was not going the way Dane hoped it would go. His manager was not the enlightened soul he thought he was. It was like trusting your shortstop to be at the bag for the throw only to find him still standing at short ignoring you. And that made him angry, and when he got angry he made it his aim to belittle his opponent the way the “Against” competitor would on his Cornel Debate Team.

  “I know you like to quote the Bard,” he replied. “You’re famous for it. But sometimes your quotes are taken out of context and don’t mean what you think they mean—but they sound good so everyone goes along with it. Take that quote. I know it’s Hamlet, but how you meant it is not how Shakespeare meant it in the play. If I remember right, Hamlet is going to put on a play wherein he’ll catch the conscience of the King, and he lectures the actors not to go overboard or be too tame in their play-acting. It has nothing at all to do with holding strong opinions.”

  “Very good,” said Shake with a smile. “Now we can talk Hamlet. I’m all ears… Granted, on occasion I throw a quote out there because it sounds good, but sometimes the sound of words are more important than the meaning of words. But in this case… no, I think I nailed it. Hamlet admires men who keep their cool. And that’s what I’m telling you—keep your cool.”

  “Cool is for James Dean. Dead and gone. I don’t want to be ‘a man whose blood is very snow-broth, one who never feels the wanton stings and motions of the sense.’”

  Shake chuckled. Measure for Measure, huh? You’re on a roll, kid. Didn’t you tell me your mom loves Shakespeare? She taught you well. For me it was my dad. We used to play a game called “comebackers” where he’d throw out a line or two and I’d have to give him the play, the act, and the scene, if I could. I got pretty good at it. We’ll have to play it one of these days. Maybe over a beer. But baseball first. There’s probably three or four guys on this club who have the talent right now to get called up and you’re one of them. The big club wants to see you in the two hole. There’s a reason for that. They see a place for you and they want to groom you for it. Work hard at it and keep your glove going and you’ll find yourself basking in the California sunshine come September. Are you with me?”

  Dane knew he was being played—like a flute—and he hated being played but there wasn’t much he could do about it. The man could be disarming. No doubt about it. He had a way about him.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, surrendering the high ground he once held.

  “Good. Meanwhile, if you’re a conspiracy nut or just plain mad, deal with it. Personally, you just think too much. Turn it off like the knob on your radio. Once you’re on the field, you need to know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw.”

  Dane nodded and failed at suppressing a smile. He still liked Shake. The guy knew a lot. He didn’t know everything, but he knew a lot.

  “All right, then,” said Shake. “If our faces don’t melt off tomorrow, I expect one hundred percent out of you. Now go catch up with your buddies.” Dane got up to leave but Shake added, “Does your mom like baseball?”

  “Loves it.”

  “Shakespeare and baseball. Hmm, a woman after my own heart. Bring her by sometime so I can meet her.”

  “Will do.”

  Dane had almost forgotten his dinner date with Delia McGivers. Not that he would have minded forgetting their date; he really didn’t want to have dinner with her anyhow. But she was his girlfriend, or his ex-girlfriend, and that made things more difficult. He thought about that as he drove over to the restaurant: was she his girlfriend or his ex-girlfriend? He had formally broken up with her a year ago but she ignored it and still acted like they were a couple. Why’d he let her get away with it? It was like taking someone out on a double-switch only to have them refuse to leave the field. There were rules against that. Yet she still called him and sent him letters and they still, on occasion, had sex. It was complicated.

  Delia sat across from him in the restaurant wearing a blue dress. She looked good in blue. It complimented her big blue eyes that carried a sumptuous sadness to them. Her long blonde hair was folded neatly over the front of her right shoulder, while on the strap of her left shoulder she wore a pink and white corsage. Dane didn’t give her the corsage. Whenever they went out she wore a corsage like it was some kind of badge or something. Not that it didn’t look nice.

  As soon as they sat down at their table, Dane started in on the Chernobyl disaster and Delia sat and politely listened to him. He knew her to be a damned polite listener and it was one of the things he disliked about her. She sat there and watched him with her blue eyes and politely listened to him like some five-hundred-dollar-an-hour psychotherapist. Occasionally she would nod or ask him to clarify a point, but she never stopped watching him with those big, sad blue eyes.

  Dane stopped his dissertation when the waiter came over to take their drink order.

  “A glass of chardonnay,” said Delia. The waiter took their orders without writing it down and said he’d be right back. “That’s not what they’re saying on the news now,” she said, turning her undivided attention back to Dane. “The worst of the fallout’s contained to the Ukraine. In Western Europe maybe Finland and Sweden will get some of it, but by the time it gets to the East Coast it will be negligible.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because governments lie. They’re made up of people and people lie.”

  “Do you lie?”

  Dane paused because he saw it starting again and he didn’t want it to. Whenever they got together it was always the same thing. It always went the same way: it started with small talk and then she would strike, trying to get a rise out of him, and when she finally did get a rise out of him she’d get emotional, make some grand gesture, and he would have to calm her down and they’d end up having sex. It was like a punishment from Zeus where he was made to perform the same task over and over again until the end of time.

  “Course,” he replied easily. “Everybody lies and I’m everybody. Have you decided what you want?” he added, picking up the menu.

  “You’re not everybody,” she said and left it at that as she picked up her menu. The waiter came with their drinks and took their dinner order. Dane hoped to avoid rolling the rock up the hill again but it wasn’t to be.

  “Have you ever lied to me?” she asked.
/>
  “Sure.”

  “When? When you said you loved me?”

  “I never loved you.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  He rubbed his chin in thought. She awaited his response. They met at Cornel and they started dating and it got hot and heavy and it stayed that way until he didn’t see any further point in it. Yes, he told her he loved her, but love was the lie. All part of the Big Lie. So was it a lie if you told someone to go to hell even though nobody believed in such a place anymore? He didn’t think so. But she awaited his response.

  “I used to love you,” he said.

  “And I believed you.”

  “You shouldn’t have believed me. Since all people lie and you know they lie, you shouldn’t have believed me.”

  “But I did believe you because you did love me. What changed?”

  “Let’s not have this discussion again. Please. We’ve had it a dozen times before.”

  “What changed?”

  Dane downed the rest of his beer and looked for the waiter to order another one. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. He looked back at Delia. Sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind.

  “You want marriage and kids and I don’t.”

  “I never said I wanted to get married. When did I say that? I never said I wanted kids.”

  “You said we’d be together forever, so what’s the difference. Besides, it’s in your DNA. Your parents, your sisters—it’s all about family and kids—and you’re just the same.”

  “What’s wrong with family and kids?”

  “Don’t want ’em.”

  “But why?”

  “Christ, Delia, you know the answer to that question. The world is filled with liars and cheaters and worse—people who kill for pleasure, who get off on hurting children. It’s a horrible place and I’m weary of it. Why would you want to bring another liar into the world? Why would you want to breed more killers? You’d be better off dedicating your life to charity work.”

  “I don’t like it when you talk that way.”

  “Sorry.” He finally flagged down the waiter and ordered another beer. He needed one.

  “You know, both my dad and brother say I should break up with you. My dad doesn’t trust you and my brother says you just stick around for the sex.”

  “You should listen to them.”

  Delia stared at him with her blue eyes. In the last thirty seconds they had gotten big and moist. Here we go, thought Dane. Here we go again. She reached into her purse (for a handkerchief, he thought) and pulled out a wad of paper. She handed them across the table and said, “Here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “The letters and poems you’ve written me.”

  “They’re yours. I wrote them for you. Keep ’em.”

  “I don’t want them. Here, take ’em.”

  Her hand remained outstretched over the table holding his letters, frozen there as though she were holding a small dagger meant for his heart. There it was—the beau geste. Wonderfully melodramatic. That was just like her. Just like a woman. He shrugged his shoulders and took the letters.

  His beer came and then dinner and they ate quietly for a while until the small talk started up again. He told her about the game, without varnish, and related his whole conversation with Shake. She even laughed in spots.

  “So you think they’ll call you up in September?” she asked.

  “Maybe, as long as I don’t break a leg or think too much.”

  “How will you manage that—not thinking too much?”

  “Easy. I’ll think about screwing.”

  “Oh, you’re sharp tonight. Someone ought to take the edge off.”

  “Yeah, someone. Want desert?”

  “I’m looking at it.”

  And there it was. The rock was almost to the top, just a few more pushes before it rolled down again. He went to her place where he made her purr, and afterwards left the letters with her.

  12

  CHAPTER

  Baseball is drama with an endless run and an ever-changing cast.

  Joe Garagiola

  April showers brought May homerun powers and by early June the Kingsmen sat atop the Eastern League by four games. Estrella kept hitting them, Goff and Burks got theirs, Horn had seven and even Dane Hamilton, now in the two hole, had four dingers. It was an embarrassment of riches or a juiced ball, one of the two.

  Which brings us to the middle innings of our story. The middle innings is when the game within the game begins; it is when hitters begin to figure out pitchers, when signs are stolen, and when managers start to get serious about their upcoming chess moves. If this were a Shakespeare play, it would be the pivotal third act. Act III is when Romeo kills Mercutio, when Hamlet catches the conscience of the King, and when lovers are tricked, friends turn against friends and confusion reigns.

  ***

  During infield practice Shake scanned the sky. It was cloudy but not expected to rain. He sniffed the evening air and felt it. Something wasn’t right. He walked closer to the stands and sniffed again. Like a sea captain who knows his ship inside and out, Shake felt something wasn’t right even though there was no visible sign of it. Then it hit him—there was no barbecue smell. By 5:00, at every home game, Shake could smell the aroma of barbecuing hot dogs and hamburgers wafting out from underneath the grandstands. It was past 5:00 and it was missing. That was odd, thought Shake. Usually Rex was all over that, barking orders at the Concessions Manager, checking each refreshment stand for readiness, even firing up the grill and flipping burgers if he had to. Fans were beginning to file in and not one of them held a hot dog in their hand.

  Out of curiosity he walked into the stands then down again to the concession level where he found Orson Kent and the Concessions Manager huddled next to a padlocked cabinet.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have the key for this, would you?” asked Orson as Shake walked up.

  “Nope,” he replied. “Rex does. Don’t you have a set?” he asked the Concessions Manager. The young man nodded no, which didn’t surprise Shake. Rex paid him minimum wage and treated him like crap. It was a high turn-over job.

  “No one changed out the propane tanks last night,” explained Orson, looking a bit flustered. “They’re empty and the new ones are locked inside and Rex’s not here.”

  “Not here. Really? Then hacksaw it off,” Shake said to the Concessions Manager. The young man just stood there with a “Huh?” expression on his face. “Go find Speed. I’m sure he’s got a hacksaw, then come back here and cut that lock off and get things going.” The young man nodded and walked off on his mission. “What do you mean Rex is not here?” he asked Orson.

  “As in ‘not here’,” replied Orson. “He’s probably at home but he’s not answering his page. I picked him up yesterday and gave him a ride home last night—it’s a long story, I’ll tell you more later—but he went into this big tirade about his ungrateful daughter and how I better hope I don’t have kids ’cause they’ll just turn against me. I remembered what you told me about his younger daughter, so I told him maybe he should call her up and mend fences. Then he really went off, calling me a ‘spoiled rich kid’ and that the world was full of ‘spoiled rich kids’ and to stay out of his business and get out of his sight. So there you have it. I guess I’m going to have to wear a disguise if I want to keep working around here.”

  Shake shrugged his shoulders. Rex wasn’t his problem. “He’ll show up,” he said as he headed back to the field. But he thought better of it and turned back to Orson. “Do me a favor. If he doesn’t show, try calling him or go over there and find out what’s going on.”

  “I will.”

  Shake walked back onto the field and watched the last of infield practice. He also kept a close eye on Prince running through his drills in the outfield. Would the kid come over to talk to him, he wondered.
Shake had already posted the line-up for tonight’s game and Hank was not starting. Instead he was going with Joe Svoboda, who was a fourth outfielder he used for spot starts and pinch hitting. He’d explained the situation to the big club and they agreed—bench Prince. After their talk in late April, Hank had put on a show and for a month had shown himself to be the best player in the Eastern League. In one game he had stolen four bases and scored six times. The kid was a marvel. But over the last couple weeks Hank had gone from spectacular to mediocre, showing up late again, missing signs, and generally playing like he was bored with baseball. So he was benched—without notice—and Shake was curious if he cared enough to come to him for an explanation.

  The Kingsmen beat the Glens Falls Tigers 4-2. Ellsworth pitched a solid game and Hoffman and Hamilton turned three double plays. In the eighth, with the score tied 2-2 and runners at first and second with one out, everyone in the park figured Shake would pinch-hit Prince for Svoboda. But he didn’t. He glanced down the bench at Hank, saw he was anticipating the call, then ignored him and told Svoboda to “Go get ’em.” Svoboda was a fan favorite. He was of Polish descent and New Britain had a large Polish community. Whenever he walked up to the plate, the P.A. Announcer would play the “Mazurka” and the fans would go crazy. It was fun to watch. Svoboda rewarded his fans with a double off the wall that scored two runs.

  There were other positive things going into his post-game report. Besides the three double plays, Dane Hamilton had got a big hit in the third to put them up 2-0. He was a natural in the two hole, moving the runner along, executing the hit and run, bunting when needed and even showing some power on occasion. Shake was sure he’d make the All-Star team. There were no more transistor radios or rants about nuclear fallout. Given the fact that it was now June and no one had keeled over from radioactivity no doubt had a calming effect on the young man. But that last part wasn’t going in his report.