Big League Dreams (Small Worlds)

by Allen Hoffman

  Bill stuck his head in.

  “Sirdy, can I get you anything?”

  “Yes, my hat, please,” Matti answered.

  “Your hat?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t wear one.”

  “My baseball hat,” Matti informed him.

  “What do you want that for now?”

  “To wear,” Matti answered.

  “In here?”

  “Yes.”

  Bill returned with the baseball cap and watched Sirdy promptly put it on his head. Since he was lying flat on his back, the hard long beak poked straight up into the air. Matti was aware of the trainer’s disapproving look. That was fair enough: what need did a naked player resting a taped ankle have for the official team hat of the St. Louis Browns? But Matti needed the head covering to offset the foot covering. The mummified foot belonged to pharaoh; the covered head belonged to the rebbe. Had he been sitting in the rebbe’s beis midrash, he would naturally have covered his head as tradition demanded. The hat represented man’s finiteness before the infinite Master of the Universe above. In that sense, the cap sat comfortably on his head. Matti was fully prepared to proclaim the infinity of the Holy One, and he fully appreciated his own limitations. Unfortunately, he appreciated them all too much. Perhaps his new awareness might help him effect his own personal redemption, but the Krimsker Rebbe intended something far grander. The rebbe was talking about nothing less than the redemption of the Jews by Matti, the modern Moses. Could Matti believe such a thing? He just didn’t know.

  Moses had been the most base of men; only through his struggle to subdue his overwhelming evil inclinations had he developed into a man of great virtue and prophetic holiness. The story about the king who had sent an artist to portray Moses explained the paradox of man—how he could be both so sordid and so marvelous—but it also troubled Matti and convinced him that his limitations were an insuperable handicap. Matti just was not, nor had he ever been, sufficiently evil. All he had wanted was to be a baseball player, earn some glory, win some money, and marry a beautiful girl. His one illegal enterprise really wouldn’t have hurt anyone except a few bookies, and it wouldn’t have hurt them very much. What would the royal advisers discover in this portrait? Matti tried to be as honest as he could. They might say that he was an intelligent, greedy, clever, grasping, slightly larcenous fellow, but certainly not very imaginative or insightful. Such a description wasn’t much to be proud of, but in all honesty neither was it sufficiently vile, base, or evil as to suggest greatness. The story of Moses demanded the reality of an outstanding human personality. In reality Matti was a second-string baseball player, and given every generous interpretation, he wasn’t more than that when it came to evil. So where did that leave him? Well, it left him on the trainer’s table with a sore foot and a desire not to violate the Sabbath.

  Matti could barely recall the last time he had wanted not to violate the Sabbath. He had observed the Sabbath for several years in America because his father had insisted on it, but he had stopped at the first opportunity. In fact, in his last year in Krimsk, he had not been very enthusiastic about either practice or belief. When he had burned the cats with Faigie he had already ceased believing the way the rest of Krimsk had. Otherwise, he would have been as afraid of Grannie Zara and Zloty as they were and would never have gone near the witch’s house. Matti had heard there was a lady ritually purifying herself by dipping naked in the Krimsk pond, and he had set out to discover her identity. Instead he had met Faigie Soffer, who, unaware that Grannie Zara had died earlier in the day, was on her way to consult the witch. Matti had mistaken her for the naked lady, and she had mistaken him for a witch. Together they had burned the cats and the cottage.

  Last night Matti had heard from the rebbe that Grannie Zara had possessed evil powers and that Faigie’s hysterical suspicions too contained some truth.

  Matti reached down to discover what he might have in his pocket now, and found to his naked embarrassment that he was without pants. What would the rebbe make of that? The lewdness of baseball? No, Matti had conquered his lust for Penny Pinkham and for the glory of the Hall of Fame. The rebbe would certainly have some ingenious interpretation of his nakedness that would augur well for Matti as Moses, but Matti didn’t want to hear it.

  Although he wanted to follow the rebbe out of the ballpark, he was not prepared to follow him back into the beis midrash; he did not accept the rebbe’s cosmic view. Fortunately, it was the holy Sabbath; Matti had no desire to rush back and report to the rebbe. He did want to speak to Boruch Levi about some kind of business, and above all he wanted to tell Barasch that everything had gone the way Matti had really wanted it to. Matti felt responsible for the pale, bloodless Barasch. He had uprooted him from his comfortable life. After dreams of Penny Pinkham, could Barasch ever return to Malka? Maybe the rebbe could speak to the unhappy cripple. And what about Matti and the rebbe? Would the rebbe accept Matti as a simple hasid? All these things troubled Matti on the trainer’s table, but as long as the Sabbath lasted he was safe. For the moment he could do nothing but observe the Holy Day, which, after all, was the day of rest. Puzzled by how he would resolve these various concerns, he celebrated the Sabbath in the traditional manner by falling asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ALTHOUGH MATTI DIDN’T HEAR BILL’S VOICE, HE DID feel the trainer’s gentle touch stirring him into wakefulness. Matti slowly opened his eyes to see the lightbulb glowing brightly above the table. He blinked a few times, finally turning away from the fiery spot.

  “What time is it?” he asked, groggy with sleep.

  “After nine o’clock.”

  “Is it dark outside?” Matti asked. His voice was still rough, but his question was sharply focused.

  “Yeah, sure it is. You’ve been out like a light for over four hours. Zack just called again and said to be sure and wake you, otherwise you wouldn’t sleep at night. You got to be rested for tomorrow’s doubleheader.”

  Matti sat up and dropped his legs over the table onto the floor.

  “How’s the foot?” Bill asked with the professional interest of one of Zack’s most trusted employees.

  Matti really hadn’t noticed. His first concern had been to make sure that the Sabbath was over. He tested his foot gently on the floor. Very little pain and hardly any swelling.

  “It’s still there, but it doesn’t feel too bad.”

  Bill nodded. “I kept the ice on it.”

  “Thanks,” Matti said. “I guess I kept you here pretty late.”

  “That’s what I’m paid for,” the trainer said. His voice expressed a pride in his job that belied the modesty of his words.

  “Well, thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Matti eased himself off the table and stepped gingerly on the taped leg. To his surprise, although he felt the tight adhesive, he could walk normally. Cautiously, he put the leg in front of him before sitting on his locker stool.

  “I’m thirsty. You have anything to drink around here?”

  “I ordered supper for you. I could put some fresh ice into the Coke; it’s been standing around for a couple of hours.”

  “Yeah, I’m dry as a bone.”

  The trainer disappeared. Matti looked around. All was still. Orderly. Too orderly. The lockers tightly closed, a stool placed precisely in front of each. The four legs rotated to form an imaginary square parallel to each locker. Matti glanced down; only his own stool destroyed the perfect, fearful geometry. In the quiet, almost ominous emptiness, he felt himself both an intruder and a stranger. When Bill arrived with the soda, he drank it all before the cooling ice had any effect. Dressing quickly, he hurried past the regimented, silent stools and stiff lockers. In a few moments, Bill would see to it that his stool, too, had joined the dumb, still ranks. He stepped into the dark night and paused. The warm air seemed spontaneous and alive.

  The trainer, who had followed him in order to lock the door, said, “Great game
.”

  “Thanks,” Matti said, but at the moment he was more excited by the open, undulating night.

  “See you tomorrow, Sirdy.”

  “Maybe,” Matti said. Without looking back, he crossed the street to start his car. He spun the crank, welcoming the explosion of sparking energy as the engine turned over.

  Driving toward home, he savored the feeling of being the last player out of the clubhouse; it suggested his dedication and professional pride. But no sooner did he have such thoughts than he felt ashamed. How could he enjoy such a total falsehood? It was as if the feelings of his former self were surfacing to confuse him. He had remained because he did not want to violate the Sabbath, and he had not relished his stay in the locker room at all. As he drove through the city streets, he suddenly realized why he had fled as quickly as he could from the room’s brutal, orderly artifacts. The place had reminded him of Grannie Zara’s cottage with its deadly, suffocating harmony. Yes, and the uneven sound of the sparking engine had been sweeter than the cheers of the crowd or the screeches of the burning cats.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be as easy to change his life as he had thought. Look how Barasch Limp Legs had reverted so pathetically to the old snorting gracelessness of the Krimsk factory yard. Matti had meant to contact him first thing, but in his hurry to leave the clubhouse he had forgotten. He considered calling from a telephone in a drugstore or restaurant on the way home but then rejected the idea. He didn’t welcome anyone overhearing, and he had a lot of explaining to do. Maybe his mother would be at the neighbor’s—that would be best. She wouldn’t be expecting him tonight. He rarely came home before midnight on Saturday nights.

  Certainly the rebbe was expecting him. He had saved Matti and was at the very least entitled to a courtesy call, but Matti did not have the energy or the certainty to confront the forceful Krimsker Rebbe, not after what had happened in the ballpark today. He needed a little more time to think things through. If he went to the Krimsker Rebbe’s house, he would be inviting the rebbe’s guidance, and he knew what that would be. He remembered that on the way home last night, Boruch Levi had expressed doubts about the rebbe. He suddenly had a strong desire to discuss his own future outside baseball with the junkman. The solid, hardheaded Boruch Levi knew and loved both Krimsk and America; so did Matti, didn’t he?

  His fears about changing his life remained. To allay them, Matti concentrated on his driving. On the busy thoroughfare, the swirl of bright headlights and soft red taillights looked as if the stars of heaven swarmed in the city’s streets. But tonight as he watched them, all Matti could think of was that he didn’t have any stars to steer by. The bright lights of baseball had irrevocably dimmed, fading from view, but he feared the prophetic constellations that the Krimsker Rebbe saw rising on the horizon. With his considerable faculties for observation, he concentrated on the swirling vehicular lights that enveloped him, but to his disappointment, none of them guided or accompanied him. Turning to the right, to the left, slowing down, passing him, stopping, not following his route westward, invariably the other cars abandoned him. Alone, he arrived in the West End in front of his apartment building. The light in the kitchen told him that his mother was home.

  Matti opened the door but remained in the shadows of the living room so that he could tell his mother about his bruises before she saw him. When she entered the room, he quickly said, “A good week,” the traditional greeting uttered upon the conclusion of the Sabbath. She stopped short and stood hesitantly.

  “A good week to you, darling,” she said softly and then added, “It’s dark in here. Why don’t you turn the light on?”

  “Well, I got a few bumps and bruises in today’s game. They look worse than they are. I wanted you to hear my healthy voice before you see them.”

  “Are they so bad?” she asked fearfully.

  “No, not if it’s your own face. They’re really nothing. But if it’s your child’s face and you worry about him and whom he will marry, then it must seem worse,” he answered.

  She was anxious to see for herself and moved to pull the string on the light.

  “No,” Matti said. “Let’s go into the kitchen. While you take a look, I can eat supper.”

  “You didn’t have supper yet?” Her voice revealed the fear that nothing other than serious injury could have kept him from eating.

  “No, I didn’t feel like riding on the Sabbath, so I stayed at the ballpark until after dark. I fell asleep, or I would have been home earlier.”

  In the well-lit kitchen, his mother served him cold chicken and cursorily examined his bruised face. She exhibited the ritual revulsion, but he could see that the bruises didn’t really worry her. As a boy he used to return with far worse.

  “Not so bad, thank God,” she said. “You want some salad?”

  “No thanks.”

  She sat down across from him.

  “Is everything all right, Matti?”

  “Yes. It was a rough game.”

  “You seem different,” she said timidly. She tilted her head slightly to the side, as if the aroma of destiny were a much sharper smell than she had imagined.

  Matti stopped eating and put down his knife and fork.

  “I am, Mom. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

  She nodded quickly. “I didn’t really think it would ever happen. It seemed to be asking too much. But last night—” She stopped in midsentence. “I almost forgot. Boruch Levi called a half hour ago and said that he had very good news.”

  Good news to Mrs. Sternweiss could only mean one thing: a wife for her only son. Matti, too, was very receptive.

  “Good news? Did he say what it was?”

  “No, but he said that he wanted to see you tonight if you have time. He seemed much friendlier than last night.”

  Matti started to get up, then thought better of it. “I’ll finish, then I’ll call him.”

  “You shouldn’t keep him waiting,” she said.

  “No, it’s better this way,” he answered, since he realized he would be going out.

  Fifteen minutes later when he made the telephone call, Sammy answered. He seemed to have been expecting him.

  “No, Mr. Sternweiss, I don’t know what he wanted to tell you, but right after he called you, he went over to the police chief’s house. He said if you called to tell you that he wouldn’t be there very long. Shall I tell him to call you back?”

  “No, Sammy, tell him I’ll be in touch,” Matti said pensively.

  When Matti didn’t end the conversation, Sammy spoke.

  “Mr. Sternweiss?” he asked, hesitantly requesting permission to continue.

  “Yes, Sammy?”

  “That was a terrific picture of you in the Globe tonight,” he said, wanting to compliment the star of the game but uncertain whether it was appropriate for a mere child to do so.

  “Thank you,” Matti said graciously. He still didn’t hang up.

  “Good night, Mr. Sternweiss.”

  “Good night, Sammy,” Matti said and finally hung up.

  He continued to sit by the phone.

  “Boruch Levi wasn’t home?” his mother inquired.

  “No, he’ll be back soon. I think I’ll pick up a paper, then drop by to see him.”

  “You don’t know what the good news is?”

  “Not yet.” He smiled. “But we’ll find out.”

  “Pooh, pooh, pooh,” she said to avoid the evil eye.

  Matti laughed.

  “Don’t wait up for me. I might be back late.”

  “You need some rest,” she said.

  “Yes, I certainly do,” he agreed good-naturedly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  WHEN MATTI DROVE AWAY FROM THE CURB, HE NOTICED in his rearview mirror that another car, a rather large one, switched on its lights and followed him down the street. In no hurry, he leisurely turned the corner and made two more turns through the quiet, residential neighborhood until he arrived at Delmar Boulevard. Unlike the myriad of lights that ha
d abandoned him earlier, the automobile continued to follow him. Matti turned onto the main road, easing himself into the flow of traffic, but he made a point of checking in his mirror to see whether the large sedan turned right, too. Matti was pleased to see that it did. Since Matti was going only two blocks down to a drugstore, that meant that he had won; the other auto had followed him all the way.

  Since he wanted to call Barasch, he passed the local newsboy hawking the morning Globe at the first intersection and continued down the long block. Near the drugstore the street was solidly parked. Matti slowed down and turned into a side street. Thinking it was rather late to be calling Barasch, he parked and hurriedly ran back to the store.

  Burt, the elderly proprietor, wearing his customary gray smock with black garters on his sleeves, was behind the marble counter serving a high school couple two ice cream sundaes. He had that weary look in which his droopy eyelids sagged a little more than usual, as if they were pulling down the shades on the day’s activity. Ray, the teenage helper, was dragging an oversize metal bucket, sloshing soapy water onto the floor. Matti caught Burt’s eye and pointed to the cubbyhole of an office behind the prescription counter where he often called Penny, and more recently Barasch. For a second he wasn’t sure whether Burt had seen him, but as the elderly man continued to scoop vanilla ice cream, he nodded at Matti, who went behind the prescription counter with its maze of bottles and great metal cash register. In the office, he carefully closed the door behind him.