Oboe Meel only giggled. In the fourth grade, his teacher had presented him with this conundrum: If a tree falls in the forest, but there is no one to hear it fall, does it make any noise? The need to deal with this question had so tormented Oboe that his education as such was largely completed at that point.
Throughout the rest of elementary school, junior high school, high school, college, and graduate school, Oboe fought with the riddle, answered it, framed it differently, thought about it, re-answered it, and dreamed about it. Eventually, he posed it this way: what is real?
This became Oboe’s major breakthrough. Having thus framed the question, Oboe could divide everything in the whole wide world into one or the other category: the real, and the not real.
While it might have been true that Oboe spent most of his educational life never learning any new information, it was also true that he learned the successful techniques for camouflaging this fact. On any true-false, multiple choice, or essay question, Oboe could lead the professor through such a verbose labyrinth of the real and the not real that the professor was usually unable to slice through it at all. He learned countless ways to dialogue on his obsession so as to numb the history professor, the English professor, the science professor, and even the mathematics professor.
In this manner had Oboe Meel pounded out the terms of his own universe. His world was a fortress of conviction and a way of life. When Oboe assigned an item in the universe to one of his categories, that item was there to stay. He was thus intimidating in the minds of many people who knew him.
“See here, Meel, you accepted the appointment as interim academic dean. Why did you accept it if you don’t plan to do any work, is what I’d like to know.”
“I accepted it for extra money, not for extra work,” answered Oboe, in round tones. “Would you care to have a look at this?” He handed Reggie a legal pad with questions scrawled in pencil on the top sheet.
“What is this supposed to be?”
“It is the preliminary stage of a philosophy test. Don’t forget, I still have classes to teach.”
Reggie asked him, “Are you teaching summer school?”
“Indeed not.”
“Then why are you writing out philosophy tests? Why aren’t you thinking up ways to enrich our curriculum?”
Oboe turned to face him: “Post hoc facto. Post hoc ergo propter hoc. De Gustibus non disputandem est.”
It sounded solid to Reggie Rose. “That’s more like it,” he observed. “Now I’ll have a look at this test.” But after skimming the questions written on the page he said, “These are multiple choice questions.”
“That is correct,” Oboe confirmed.
“How do you do it?”
“How do I do what?”
“How do you make multiple choice questions for a philosophy test?”
“Simple. I just make up the questions, then I determine the right answers.”
Reggie read the first question: Which is real, the blackbird singing, or just after?
Mystified by this question, President Rose decided to move on to the next one: If a coconut falls from a tree on a desert island, but only a sponge is near enough to hear it land, does the falling coconut in fact make any sound?
“How can you answer questions like this?” asked Reggie.
Oboe Meel gave it a wave of the hand. “I don’t have the slightest idea. I merely add up all the answers, and the answer that gets the most votes wins. That becomes the right answer.”
“Are you saying that the students end up choosing their own right answers?”
“A good way of putting it, I should think,” commended Oboe.
Reggie could stand no more. Exhausted by the exigencies which this single morning had already wrought, he decided to think about what he would have for lunch. He said aloud, “If I eat lunch in the union, they might have that Waldorf salad they often make. It’s usually quite nice.”
Oboe approved of this approach: “Lunch is a very appropriate basking topic.”
“Since this is Wednesday, they might have the veal scallopini.”
Oboe reclosed his eyes just after rehooking his thumbs beneath the straps. He wheezed it out, “The veal dish is one of the union’s better culinary efforts.”
“But whenever I eat in the union,” said Reggie, “Professor Revuelto always wants to join me. He seeks me out even if I don’t make eye contact. He eats like a pig and sweats a lot.”
“The wondrous dividend of basking is that there is always time to explore the alternatives.”
“Of course, if my memory serves me, Revuelto is still in South America. And anything would be better than lunch with Bertie.”
“Now you have it truly,” rumbled Oboe in his richest, resonant tones. “You are right on target.”
Chapter Two
Upon discovering that Vano had made a visit to Entrada College, Vernon Lucas was not pleased: “You did what??”
Vano repeated it: “I drove up to Entrada to visit. I went to their baseball field and talked to their coach.”
Vernon, who was 73 years old but thought he was 72, said, “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” He was turning red in the face. His pink scalp glistened through his thinning white hair. “Did I give you permission to visit Entrada College?”
“Nobody gave me permission. It was my own idea. Sort of.”
“You don’t have ideas!” snapped Vernon Lucas. “What you have is the world’s livest arm. Ideas have no place in your life.”
“Right.” Vano slumped in his chair.
Vano’s father poked his own sternum with a bony index finger. “I take care of the ideas. That’s why I screen everything. Most hot-shot prospects have to go out and hire an agent, who usually screws everything up. We’re sitting on a gold mine here, and it’s your great good fortune to have me in charge of financial negotiations.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Why in hell would you want to go to college?”
“I don’t want to go there,” answered Vano.
“In the first place, Entrada College is nowhere. A guy could sit on the bench at UCLA and get more attention from pro scouts than he could by being a superstar at a place like Entrada.”
“Right,” repeated Vano. “I don’t want to go there anyway. What’s in the second place?”
“Are you getting smart with me? Pay attention what I’m telling you. Do you want to pitch in a cow pasture with nobody watching? Do you want to spend four years doing homework? Do you realize that with your grades and test scores you would be ineligible to pitch because of Proposition 48? Do you have any knowledge at all of NCAA procedures for campus visits?”
Vano was confused by so many questions. He was pretty sure the answer to the first two was no, but he merely slumped a little deeper in his chair. “Right,” he said.
Vernon Lucas asked, “Where did this Entrada idea come from, tell me that.”
“I’m not sure where it came from. It was one of those days when I was getting vibes.”
His father got even redder in the face and began to pace. “And that’s another thing. If I hear about your vibes even one more time, I think I might have to vomit. Have you given any thought to my heart condition?”
Vano said, “Sister Cecilia was showing me a scrap book that had pictures of Mother with a holy man. It gave me some real heavy vibes. Before I knew it, I remembered that she went to Entrada.”
“That does it,” declared the senior Lucas. He snatched a nitroglycerine tablet and downed it rapidly. He summoned Sister Cecilia from the laundry room. “And make sure you bring that damned scrapbook with you,” he commanded.
It was only a matter of moments before she arrived, clutching the scrapbook. She sat down in a chair next to Vano. After Vano’s father faced her off, he demanded to know the meaning of this.
“I was just cleaning out the attic,” answered Sister quietly. “It’s one of the things I’m paid to do. Cleaning, that is.”
“Are you attempting sar
casm here?” But Vernon didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed the scrapbook and threw it open. “Do you have any idea who this freak is?” He was pointing to the holy man beside Vano’s mother. Vano found himself moving in some low-level resonance, like the shallow end of the pool.
“No, I don’t.” said Sister Cecilia.
“His name was Alan Watts. I suppose you’ve never heard of him.”
“No, I haven’t.” Sister was feeling humiliated.
Vano’s father said, “Alan Watts was one of the biggest religious cuckoos who ever walked the planet. He preached the path of dropping out, burning incense, and contemplating your navel. Unfortunately, there were enough suckers like Vano’s mother around to keep the bastard in business.”
Sister Cecilia reminded Vernon that it was inappropriate to speak disrespectfully of the dead. She also asked him not to swear.
“I have no doubt he was a communist as well,” added Vernon.
Sister assumed he hadn’t heard her. “We shouldn’t speak in a manner that dishonors the dead,” she said.
“I heard you the first time. Vano’s mother was a good kid, God rest her soul, but there wasn’t an ounce of common sense in her. For charlatans like Alan Watts, she was easy prey. The facts are, she couldn’t even balance a checkbook or understand the meaning of an escrow account. Why are the two of you slumped there like truants? Sit up straight.”
Sister and Vano sat up straight.
Vernon told Sister, “I want all scrapbooks kept out of sight and out of mind. You hear me?”
Sister’s eyes were lowered. “I didn’t mean any harm. I only thought it might mean something to Vano if he could look at the pictures of his mother.”
“There’s no meaning in looking at pictures of a loony tune like Alan Watts.”
“Where should I put the scrapbook?”
“Never mind, I’ll take care of it myself. Now I want you both to listen up carefully. There’s something important you need to know. Are you aware of anything? Do you ever watch the news?”
Vano wondered if the question was directed at him. “Who, me?”
“Yes, you. Of course, you.”
Vano shrugged. “I’m not like into current events.”
“Do you ever listen to the radio in that car I bought you?”
“Radios are for dweebs,” Vano informed him. “I listen to tapes.”
“Then you don’t have a clue, do you?” With this snooty remark, Vernon shook his head slowly, then resumed his pacing.
Vano wondered where this conversation was headed when his father said, “It was on the news at noon. The Oakland A’s traded three veteran players to the Yankees to get the first pick in the draft. Just to get the right to draft you.”
Vano perked up his ears. “Three players? Who?”
“Harold Baines, Willie McGee, and Carney Lansford.”
“Jesus Christ, those guys are superstars. They traded all of them so they could get me?”
“Try to get this straight. It’s really not over your head. They traded all three of them just to get the first pick in the draft. Plus a promising triple-a pitcher.”
Vano was confused. “It’s real confusing, isn’t it?”
“And you were thinking about going to college. The point is we have the Oakland Athletics right where we want them. It’s obvious that they are ready to deal in very big figures. Very, very big. Have you run your laps today?”
“No not yet.”
“Then go run them.”
July 18 was an open day in the schedule of the Oakland Athletics. It was a day of thick bay haze, heavy and humid, but by eleven a.m. when the haze burned off, it was hot.
The sun broke through on the A’s sluggers, who were taking batting practice. Smashing line drives against the fence as well as over it. The crack of their bats echoed hollow in the empty Oakland Coliseum. Mark McGuire walloped two homers to deep left center. Then Jose Canseco, the 23-million dollar man, slammed one up against the left-center field fence. He followed that up with a tape-measure shot to dead center.
The Athletics were wearing their uniform pants and caps, but not their shirts; just undershirts. It was the same for Vano, who was warming up in the bullpen along the left field line. He wore his high school uniform pants and a gray tee shirt. On his head was the red team cap, with the white letters AV for Apple Valley.
Only 50 or 60 spectators, consisting of Oakland A’s corporate brass, scouts, and minor league supervisory personnel, were permitted to watch this event. When the media people were turned away at the press gate, they concluded that something uniquely important was taking place on the inside.
And they were right. For Vernon Lucas, galvanized by his infinite belief in the transcendence of his only son’s pitching arm, had goaded Oakland’s team officials into an unheard-of proposition. Vano would pitch batting practice to the entire Athletics’ lineup. If even one hitter got one single hit, Vano would agree to a ten million dollar signing bonus. If not, the signing bonus would be twenty million.
Vernon was sitting in one of the prime box seats behind home plate, next to Rakestraw, the Oakland general manager. It occurred to Rakestraw that one or two of the fine-print details still needed scripting. He asked Vernon, “How do we decide what’s a hit?”
“You can decide,” answered Vernon simply.
“I just want to be fair, that’s all.”
Vernon chuckled. “You’ll be fair. You know a hit when you see one. Hell, if it makes you feel any better, you can put fielders out behind him. That would take the guess work out of it.”
Then Rakestraw said, “Lucas, you’ve got balls this big, you know that? This big.”
Lucas Senior’s response was in the form of a stifled yawn. “So you keep saying.”
The few observers who weren’t in the home plate vicinity were stationed with their speed guns near the bullpen where Vano’s warm-ups were popping the mitt of Jerome Neal, the Oakland A’s bullpen coach and former major league catcher. Vano was throwing easily, just getting loose, topping out in the mid eighties. He had popped a sweat, though, and was beginning to feel grooved. He said so to Neal.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m loose and locked on. Pretty soon I’ll start seeing every pitch before I throw it.”
Neal wondered if Vano Lucas was a nut case. He shrugged and went back into his crouch. He had no idea what Vano was talking about, but he was close to finding out. Vano’s next fast ball poured into his mitt at 99 per. Jerome Neal winced and flinched. While lobbing the ball back he said, “Jesus Christ, Kid, nice pop.”
“There wasn’t no pop on that,” was Vano’s scornful reply. “That wasn’t even close to pop.”
Neal reacted first by smiling, then by patronizing: “Yeah, sure, Kid. Right.” He had read the stuff on Vano just like everybody else, but he assumed the stories were media hype or readings from faulty equipment.
But on the next fast ball, Neal saw his life pass before him. Picked up on all the guns at 112 or 114, it was a rocket that blazed into his mitt before he could react. A murmur rippled the gathered scouts while Neal stood up slowly. He whooshed his breath before he said, “Jesus Christ.” Then he said to Vano, “Wait a minute, I’ll be right back.”
The Oakland veteran went directly to the dugout where he began by slipping a nut cup into position. Next, he put on the chest protector. He was strapping on the shinguards when Tony LaRussa, the A’s field manager, approached. “Is he ready?” LaRussa asked.
“He didn’t say he was.”
“Then why are you putting on the gear?”
“Come and see,” Neal replied.
LaRussa came to see. Neal brought his face mask down into position before he said, “Okay, Vano, go ahead.”
Vano launched a dozen heaters which ranged from 108 to 118 miles per hour. They were like comets with angry tails, blurs that cracked the waiting mitt like cherry bombs. Then he threw a dozen of the 98 mile-an-hour sliders with the big bite, slamming into Neal�
�s mitt ten inches off the ground. All in the strike zone.
Tony LaRussa wasn’t speaking, but he was shaking his head. He thought to ask one of the scouts what the velocity was on his gun, but then he had another thought: why bother?
Neal explained to him, “I wish I could tell you I was catchin’ this shit, Tony, but it’s really just him hittin’ the target.”
LaRussa, who thought he had seen it all but now understood that he hadn’t, couldn’t find his tongue. He simply continued with the head shaking.
Vano’s sweat was full broken. He told LaRussa, “I’m grooved and ready. Can we do it now?”
“Sure, Kid, let’s do it right now.”
Vano took his place on the mound. He looked slowly around the vast Oakland Coliseum but it didn’t faze him; it could have been just another cow pasture next to another high school. Some of the A’s took up defensive positions in no particular scheme, while others, the most famous ones, crowded around the batting cage. Standing next to Vano, Jerome Neal told him, “Don’t be scared, Kid.”
Vano couldn’t think of anything to be afraid of. “What’s to be scared of?” he asked Neal.
Since he had just been on the receiving end of Vano’s best stuff, the veteran catcher wasn’t surprised by this level of nonchalance. “It’s just something you’re supposed to say to young pitchers.” Then Neal went ahead with some final instructions: “There won’t be no signs. If you ever get the urge to throw something other than that heater, you just call me out here and tell me face to face. We straight on that?”
Vano said, “I don’t want this thing here.” He was pointing to the portable screen in front of the mound which was used for the protection of batting practice pitchers.
“The screen’s just for protection.”
“I don’t care about protection, I care about bein’ grooved. This thing will break my concentration.”
Neal shrugged his shoulders before he motioned to two groundskeepers who removed the screen. Then the catcher took his place behind the plate, where Ricky Henderson, the all-star left fielder, had the lumber out. The umpire was a college official named Quinn, a friend of LaRussa’s.
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