by Michael Kun
Those were my wonderful memories: the buses, the cheap motels, the greasy food.
“Everything will work out,” I assured him, and I meant it. “Just concentrate. And don’t jerk your head when you swing. Keep your head down.”
That had always been Frosty’s problem with the Eskimos: He would lift his head when he swung, anticipating the flight of the ball off the bat, but doing that would cause him to drop his shoulder, not noticeably, but enough to alter the arc of his swing so that the ball would duck under his bat and end up in the catcher’s mitt for strike one. Then two. Then three.
“Keep your head down,” I told him again, and he smiled that perfect smile of his. That was Frosty: all white teeth and a good heart.
“I’ll give it a try.”
I extended a hand to him, and he shook it.
“Listen,” he said before I could run off to rejoin my teammates, “Ginny is here today.” He gestured to the seats behind the third base dugout. Though I squinted in the sun, I couldn’t see his wife anywhere. Nevertheless, I gave a hearty wave. Fifty people waved back. Two held up their hands with their middle fingers extended as if they were pointing to the moon.
“Listen,” Frosty said, “Ginny has been having some pains in her abdomen from time to time.” He touched his own abdomen with his fingertips, just below the “NY” of his beautiful pinstriped uniform, the same uniform worn by the likes of Ruth and Gehrig and Mantle and DiMaggio. “Nothing serious, but I’m worried about her just the same.”
“Bring her down to the trainer’s room after the game and I’ll give her a look.”
“Thanks, Boo,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” I answered. “Just keep your head down.”
Jimmy O’Toole pitched for us today. He’s still a kid, just a hair over 22 years of age—he even has blotches of acne on his nose and chin—but you’d hardly have known it from the way he played today. He pitched a masterpiece of a ballgame, keeping the batters off-balance, tripping over their feet as if they were just learning to dance, and it was a pleasure to stand out in centerfield on a summer day and watch those Yankees lunging for curveballs, ducking their heads from fastballs, diving as if to avoid an oncoming bus. The Yanks couldn’t touch him, but we couldn’t scare up a run ourselves against the Yanks’ ace, Stan Picotta. He’s an enormous man with a belly that looks like he has 30 copies of Ulysses stuffed in his jersey and hanging over his belt like an awning. He tires late in a game though, especially in the summer heat. Though he looked unbeatable for the first six innings, we scored two runs off him in the seventh and knocked him out of the game with two more in the eighth. It looked like we had the game wrapped up, four-to-nothing. But you cannot trust anything in baseball. You cannot trust a thing.
The bottom of the ninth was something to remember and something to forget. It made your heart sing and your stomach rumble and your mind swim, and the whole thing happened with the deliberateness of events that you know you are committing to memory just as they are happening. The first two Yankee batters popped up, and the fans began to head for the exits as if escaping a rainstorm.
O’Toole walked the next batter, then gave up a little single through the hole between shortstop and third base. Just like that, the Yanks had two runners on base; the fans turned in the aisles and returned to their seats. The next batter was Carl Babisch, the Yanks’ catcher. O’Toole stepped off the mound, rubbing the ball in his bare hands, squeezing it as if he could make it smaller and harder to hit. But the more he rubbed it, the smaller O’Toole himself became until I could swear that I was watching a little boy stepping back onto the mound, with his shirt untucked and his hair slick with perspiration and one sock dangling.
“You’re a bum, O’Toole!” someone yelled from the Yankee dugout.
“Did you wet your diapers, O’Toole?”
“Don’t cry, little baby.”
O’Toole wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and, his shoulders hunched as if against the cold, I knew he was a goner. Before you could say “Jackie Robinson,” Carl Babisch had belted a homer into the leftfield stands. The fans pointed at the ball in flight. They were pointing to the moon again.
There was a great roar from the crowd, too, and it hung in the air as our manager, Hippy Hallyday, walked out to the mound. Hippy’s an oldtimer, short on patience, but kind still. He raised an arm to signal for Teddy Houston to come in from the bullpen. O’Toole handed Hippy the ball and walked to the dugout with his head bowed like a mourner. There was no reason to be upset with himself; he’d pitched a heck of a ballgame. But the Yankee fans hollered at him just the same, calling him names that I won’t repeat, spitting at him.
We were still one out from a victory, but now our lead was down to one run, and the game was now in Teddy Houston’s hands. Houston had been struggling lately. He’d lost games to the Royals and the Twins, so it was a surprise to see Hippy call on him in such a close ballgame. It was an act of faith, I suppose, but Houston had nothing today. His pitches seemed to flutter up to the plate. He gave up a single on the first pitch, then a double to the next batter. Suddenly, the Yanks had runners on second and third, and all they needed was a scratch hit to win the ballgame.
Willie Joe Gursky, the Yanks’ little secondbaseman, was due up. He stood in the on-deck circle, swinging three bats at once, the force nearly toppling him. Finally, he turned his head in response to some comment from the dugout, then dropped his bats to the ground and took a seat on the bench: Frosty Jenkins emerged from the dugout.
“Pinch-hitting for the Yankees,” the public address announcer bellowed, “Frosty Jenkins,” and the fans hissed and booed and made noises like animals in a zoo as if Frosty were one of us instead of one of them.
If Frosty heard them, I can’t say. He stepped into the batter’s box, tugged at the Sam of his helmet, pawed at the red dirt with his cleats, then shouted something to Teddy Houston; I could see his beautiful white teeth moving. Houston’s first pitch nearly struck Frosty in the head. What had Frosty said? What?
The next two pitches were strikes.
“Keep your head down, Frosty,” I thought, concentrating on those words. “Keep your head down, Frosty. Down. Down.”
I wanted him to make contact, to smack the ball solidly. But I wanted the ball to fall in my glove in the end.
Houston threw the next pitch high and outside for a ball. It was two balls and two strikes. What a ballgame!
“Keep your head down, Frosty.” I was concentrating so hard that my jaw was growing sore.
The next pitch was a curveball that started high and dipped like the curve of a woman’s back. Frosty slid one foot forward and flicked his bat, his head down, down, down. A cheer rang out, and the crowd jumped to their feet anticipating the moment when the ball would plunk down in the grandstand for a home run, but the ball began to die in flight. Tony Campanella, our rightfielder, gave chase. He lowered his head, and chunks of earth flew up from his feet like the dirt from the hooves of a great racehorse. The ball began to sink; it wasn’t going to reach the seats after all. From where I was, I could see the wad of muscle in Campanella’s shoulders as he pumped his arms. He ran and he ran, and finally he sprung forward, extending his glove, and for a moment, the time it takes to sneeze, it appeared that he would grab the ball, but it struck ground instead, landing in the dirt of the warning track a good two feet beyond his reach. The runners on second and third trotted home, and the Yankees had beaten us five runs to four.
And from my spot in deep centerfield, I could see Frosty smiling as his teammates greeted him liked he’d just returned from the war, slapping his back, rubbing his head like a piece of fruit. He smiled and smiled, his white teeth like piano keys. It was the same smile he wore later, after I examined his wife and told him he was going to be a father.
June 17—Baltimore, Maryland
We flew back to Baltimore late last night. Hardly anyone spoke after the tough loss against the Yanks. Hippy Hallyday sat up front with the coaches, mu
mbling and cursing. The rest of us boys sat in the back, reading magazines or paperback books, some dozing. At one point, Hubie McCaskey, our backup catcher, took his harmonica out and started to play “Stairway to Heaven.” He’s a terrific harmonica player, and he knows hundreds of songs by heart. Only no one was in the mood to hear him play tonight. A few of the boys put pillows over their heads. Someone threw a magazine. Then Hippy stood up, pointing a finger toward Hubie like he was a witness in court identifying a murderer.
“One more note,” Hippy said, “one more note, and I’ll shove that harmonica down your throat.”
Only Hubie didn’t hear Hippy. His own music had drowned it out. He asked Carl Wilbert, our third baseman, what Hippy had said.
“He asked you if you could play a little louder,” Carl said, and when Hubie played the song a little louder it took four of us to hold Hippy back, grabbing him by his arms and legs like we were mugging him.
“I’m going to kill that little blankety-blank,” he said, though of course he didn’t say “blankety-blank.” A single vein stood out on Hippy’s forehead like a stretch of rope.
“Hippy, don’t,” I said. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
“Let me go, Boo,” he said.
“Your blood pressure, Hippy. Your blood pressure.”
And he considered the source, I guess, then sat down.
No one made a peep the rest of the flight. I opened up my notebook and began to write a poem for Margie, something to give her when I saw her at the gate. But soon I found myself jotting down some notes about the cure for cancer. Maybe if we could isolate the cancer cells and place them in a vacuum for some extended period of time…and then I was sleeping. A deep, dark sleep in which I had a frightening dream the likes of which I’d never had before. I dreamed that I was Sam Bolander, only I wasn’t really Sam Bolander. I wasn’t a ballplayer. I wasn’t a doctor. The closest I’d ever been to the moon was when I’d gone to the top of the Empire State Building. My name was still Sam Bolander, but I was a computer salesman. And Margie wasn’t my wife, but a girl whom I occasionally saw from a distance in the food court of our office building. And I was lying in a hospital bed, all sweaty and dreamy and smelling like rubbing alcohol. And someone was standing over me saying, “Your blood pressure. Your blood pressure.”
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear [Insert Name]:
I am sending herewith the first chapter of my first novel, Invisible Sam. Although it is my first attempt at writing a novel, I have more than a bit of writing experience, having written a popular column while at UCLA called “The Bear Facts.”
I hope you will enjoy the first chapter of Invisible Sam and that your publishing company would be interested in publishing it.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Heather,
You’ll never guess who I ran into at the post office yesterday? Kate. Yes, the very same girl who cost me my job at Empire Software.
We spoke for a couple minutes. She said she was doing fine and that things were going well at work. I get the impression that things may not be going well with her new boyfriend (who you may recall was also her old boyfriend), because when I asked about him she got a puzzled look on her face and said, “Who?” as if she doesn’t give him a lot of thought. All in all, it was a nice conversation, but awkward. I couldn’t tell if she wanted me to ask her out. Not that I would do that anyway. Simply, I can’t even imagine ever marrying her now. I mean, can you imagine us getting married and me explaining to our children how we got together: “Well, kids, Mommy and Daddy fell in love just a few months after Mommy got Daddy fired, leaving him alone, broke and unemployed.” Not a very romantic story, is it?
Anyway, I hope you’re doing well today. I saw you in a commercial for hair coloring on TV last night. (It may have been shampoo, now that I think of it.) You looked terrific! Really, I mean it. You always look so happy!
Hope all’s well with you these days.
Take care.
Eat Wheaties!
Sid Straw
P.S. I have six job interviews next week.
P.P.S. I hope you haven’t wasted any time reading the first chapter of my novel. It’s garbage, just like that children’s story I sent you! Please throw it out. Immediately.
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Agent Friedlander:
This letter is to confirm that I have agreed to your request to meet at CIA headquarters in Washington, D.C., on Thursday at 10:00 a.m. I am sure you will see that this has all been a terrible, terrible misunderstanding. I am a good, honest, law-abiding citizen who poses a threat to no one.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Ms. Portino:
I am thrilled to receive your letter offering me the Assistant Vice President of Marketing position. Everyone at New Solutions Software seems terrific, and I truly believe I can help take the company into the future!
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Sir or Madam:
I will be starting a new job with New Solutions Software on Monday. Accordingly, I will not require unemployment compensation any longer. Thank you for your assistance.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Heather,
GREAT NEWS! I got a job offer from New Solutions Software to take over as Assistant Vice President of Marketing. While the title is a bit of a step down for me, financially it is an improvement, especially when you consider stock options. I start next Monday.
Hope things are going well for you, too.
Best wishes,
Sid Straw
P.S. Eat Wheaties!
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
To The Baltimore Union Mission:
I wanted to share some of my good fortune with the needy people of Baltimore. Enclosed is a check for $100.
Keep up the good work!
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear [Insert Name]:
This letter is to advise you that I have accepted a position with New Solutions Software. As such, I would like to remove my name from consideration for the [insert title] position.
Thank you for your time. I wish you luck in filling the position.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Agent Friedlander:
I enjoyed having the opportunity to meet with you and Agents Johnson, Cuellar, Palmer, Reid, Browner, Stapleton, Linz and Mueller yesterday. As you can tell, I am not a threat to national security or to any individuals. Furthermore, while your records are correct and I did take a class called “The Relevance of Lenin and Marx in Late Twentieth Century America” taught by Mr. Stanley Katz, so did hundreds of other students, few if any of whom are Communists, I suspect. I also am not a Communist. In fact, I only took the class in the first place because there were some cute girls who signed up for it!
I appreciate your help in clearing my good name.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Dear Ms. Portino:
I am in receipt of your letter in which you informed me that New Solutions Software has rescinded its offer of employment to me. I am saddened, disappointed and confused by this rather abrupt decision. I had been looking forward to taking the marketing team into a new and exciting direction.
I would appreciate it if you would call me at your convenience to discuss the revocation of your offer.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Mr. Spellman:
ARE YOU GIVING MY LETTERS TO HEATHER, OR NOT?
At the very least, I deserve an answer to that simple, straightforward question.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Ms. Portino:
Thank you for your telephone call earlier today. Would it be possible for you to send me a copy of the references and the background investigation report that the company obtained? I suspect they may be erroneous.
Thank you.
Very truly yours,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Agent Friedlander:
There was absolutely no reason for you to interrogate my mother. You scared the life out of her. Yes, her maiden name was DeCastro, but that’s Italian, not Cuban. She’s not related in any way to Fidel Castro, as the fact that they have different last names would suggest. In any event, I assure you that my mother is an American through and through. Her only crime is being a bad cook, which I believe is outside your agency’s jurisdiction.
