“You’re not chickening out on me, are you?” Walt asked.
“Not a chance.”
“Come on, then.”
Walt handed the ticket fellow a couple of bills and soon they were ushered into one of the tiniest theaters Skip had ever seen. It wasn’t even really a theater so much as a room, approximately the same size as Skip’s apartment, with four round tables lined up in front of the stage and rows of mismatched chairs lined up behind them. The tables were all occupied, and a smattering of the seats were filled. Walt led Skip to the middle of the rows of seats, so Skip sat and waited to see what would happen.
Something occurred to Skip’s addled brain as he watched the sort of men who took up space in the theater. Some of them were effeminate men, like the fella at the counter, but not all of them were. Skip glanced at Walt, at the fashionable suit and the rose on his lapel, and he started to wonder.
“Can I ask you something?” Skip said.
“I’m all ears, dollface.”
The nickname irked Skip a little, but he supposed what Walt was implying—that Skip had a face like a woman’s—was not something Walt intended as insulting. He might even find it desirable. For confirmation, Skip whispered, “Do you know many men who desire the company of other men? Instead of women, I mean.”
Walt looked so shocked that Skip immediately regretted asking the question. It was a foolish thing to ask. There was no way a man like Walt—a handsome, successful man—would know anyone like that, nor would he want to be spending time with a man like that. Skip was so horrified he’d even said anything that he began to stand to leave. He figured he could just walk out of the theater and put this whole night behind him.
Walt put a hand on Skip’s thigh, keeping him in his seat.
“Why do you ask?” Walt said.
Why had he asked? Skip wasn’t sure. He tried to make his mind focus on something, but it was swimming now. He looked around him. He hadn’t known many men like himself. There had been Billy, the neighbor’s son, with whom Skip had fooled around as a teenager, but that hardly counted since Billy was married to a pretty girl named Rosemary now, and by all accounts as happy as he’d ever been. Otherwise, in Skip’s experience, the few men he knew like himself had congregated at a club in Columbus that sometimes had female impersonators. Maybe it was the hooch talking, but it seemed logical that a club like this would have men like that, too.
Skip wasn’t willing to give that much away, however. “Forget I asked.”
“I do know a few,” Walt said.
Skip was astonished. Then he glanced around and figured this was also a foolish reaction. Walt was, after all, in this sort of club, and based on that earlier conversation Skip had witnessed, it was not Walt’s first time here. Skip thought back on all of the men they had run into that evening, from the strongman at the door of the Penguin to the Ethel selling tickets into this theater, and how all of them had given Walt “the look.” Skip wondered how often Walt returned that expression.
The alcohol made him brave enough to ask, in a whisper, “Are you one of them?”
Skip’s heart pounded while he waited for an answer.
“Yes,” Walt said softly. “As are you, if I’m not mistaken.”
Skip had trouble catching his breath, so he nodded. Walt leaned in close enough that Skip could feel Walt’s breath on his face. The moment was heavy, the air in the room suffocating in the way only a hot New York night could be, and Skip was about to say something—anything—but then the lights on the tiny stage flashed on.
A woman walked on stage and drawled, “Darlings,” to the audience. She was a large brick of a woman in a rectangular flapper gown covered in sparkly tassels and sequins. She was a little bowlegged and she had an Adam’s apple. Skip couldn’t figure out who Carmela thought she was kidding.
She immediately broke out into song. After a few bars, Skip recognized it as a Gershwin tune called “The Man I Love,” a song he’d been quite fond of after hearing it performed on one of his first nights in New York.
Thinking about the lyrics made Skip acutely aware of the man sitting next to him, a man who inspired feelings of arousal and possession in Skip, a man who had called him a genius not that long ago.
After the show, Skip used the men’s room and then met Walt outside, where he was talking to some man. They were laughing about something together. As Skip approached, Walt made eye contact and then somewhat abruptly said, “Well, I should be going. It was great to see you, though, Rob.”
The show had been uproarious, funny, and entertaining, and not at all what Skip had expected, and he wanted to talk about it, but now that the alcohol was dissipating, he was suddenly quite tired. This Rob fellow walked away, leaving Walt and Skip alone on the sidewalk.
“Well,” Walt said. “I suppose I understand better why you didn’t want to be interviewed.”
Skip shook his head. “The one thing I didn’t want anyone to know, and you found it out anyway. I should be terrified, but somehow, I trust you.”
“I want you to trust me, Skip. I promise I won’t print anything more than what I told you before. You guard your privacy, which I respect, but you’re some kind of savant when it comes to the game. My not printing much about your personal life will give you an air of mystery. Fans will like that. They’ll find it intriguing. And besides, my goal as a sports reporter is to report on the game. Fans like the stories about the Babe, sure, but they care about runs and RBIs, too.”
“Thank you.” Skip shoved his hands in his pockets and looked toward Seventh Avenue, toward the bright lights of Broadway. “I guess I should go home.”
“Can I help you get a cab?”
Skip had been planning to take the subway up to his place on West Seventy-Third Street, but he nodded.
Walt took a step toward him. “Before you go, I just wanted to say that I had a nice time tonight. I’ll say that in my article. There’s something really special about you, Skip, and I want people to see that.”
Skip could hear his father’s voice bouncing around in his head. He could hear every time someone told him he’d never amount to anything. But Walt clearly saw something else in him. There was something so strange about that.
Or there was still enough alcohol buzzing through Skip that everything seemed weird.
He was confused briefly, but then Walt stepped forward and extended his hand. Skip reached to shake it, but then thought better of it. Instead, he did what he’d been longing to do since they’d spoken quietly in the theater.
He leaned up on his toes and kissed Walt.
Skip could feel Walt’s surprise, but then Walt kissed him back and put a hand on his waist. It was magic, the way their lips came together, and there was a sexual charge to it, too. Something pricked at the back of Skip’s mind, that he should be more cautious, but then, Walt was kissing him, too, so….
They were kissing on a street. Two men kissing. In the middle of a busy city.
Skip pulled away and looked at Walt.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Oh, it is quite all right,” Walt said. He glanced toward Times Square. “Well, as much as I’d enjoy getting arrested for indecency, perhaps the best course of action is to get you home, where you can sleep this off. Are you playing tomorrow?”
“Travel day. We’re going to Boston.”
Walt nodded. “I’d like to see you again after you get back. And not for another story.”
Skip wanted that too, more than anything. “Yes.”
He followed Walt back toward Times Square, where Walt managed to hail a cab and usher Skip into it.
“So, when you get back,” Walt said.
“You know where to find me.”
Chapter 3
SKIP woke up to someone pounding on his door.
“Skip!” a voice shouted. It took him a moment to realize it was his roommate Mickey. “Skip, we have to leave soon to catch the train. Get up!”
“All right! I’m awake!”
&nbs
p; Skip sat up. It took a moment for the pain to blossom, and then his head throbbed. Dear Lord, what had he done the night before?
He remembered in a flash: the speakeasy, all those rum cocktails, Carmela dancing across the stage.
Kissing Walter Selby.
That got Skip out of bed in a hurry. He hopped up and scrambled into whichever clothes were closest—some wool trousers and a white shirt that could probably stand to be laundered—and then poked around for his billfold and hat. He stumbled down the hall and managed to shave, at least. He seemed somewhat presentable by the time he met Joe and Mickey at the front door.
“Wild night?” Mickey asked with a little bit of a sneer.
“Too much rum, I guess,” Skip said.
“You’re not hiding a dame under your bed, are you?” asked Joe. “Because we’re gonna be gone for a few days. You might want to let her out.”
Mickey guffawed.
Skip couldn’t think of a witty reply, so he just shrugged and said, “No girls under the bed.”
On the train ride up to Boston, Skip’s mind was focused almost exclusively on Walt, reliving the night before, alternately thrilled by what had happened and horrified by his own behavior. He fretted that all of it was a scheme on Walt’s part to get Skip to admit to something he didn’t want to see in print, but that kiss had certainly felt genuine. Maybe it was foolish, but Skip trusted Walt. Maybe that trust was cemented with alcohol, but maybe Walt had earned it, too. Or maybe there was a printing press somewhere cranking out pages describing all of Skip’s secrets.
He was glad he’d be out of town when the story hit the paper. He wasn’t sure he could face it. Not that he’d even be able to read much of it, but he didn’t want to deal with people’s reactions. What if his teammates found out how broken Skip was? What if John McGraw found out? What if the team owners found out? They probably wouldn’t let him play baseball anymore, and then where would he be?
To help stop fretting, he switched to thinking about the upcoming game against the Braves. He tried to recall what he already knew about the team. He hadn’t played in that many games for the Giants, that was true, but he’d been watching games all season, so he knew each team’s weaknesses, knew its strengths, knew which batters to watch out for, knew where to hit the ball.
Unfortunately, strategizing his game against the Braves made him think of Walt, too, of the questions Walt had asked. Walt had called him a genius. But how could that be true? Skip couldn’t remember anyone ever calling him smart. His thoughts became confused and muddled the more he turned over the events of the previous night. He fretted about what Walt might print. He worried it would distract him from the game. He desperately wanted to see Walt again. Well, at the base of things, he wanted Walt fiercely, sexually, desired and craved him, got excited thinking about him. But he was terrified that getting involved with the man would only cause more problems. How would he explain absences to his roommates? What if they were seen together in public?
He managed to listen when his teammates started yammering on about the upcoming series and even managed to add something to the conversation. He listened when they talked about women. He felt anxious to at least get to their destination so he could think about Walt without it showing on his face. As conversation waned, he leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep.
WALT SELBY had lived in New York City all his life and sometimes felt like he’d seen everything during his thirty-four years on earth.
He’d been a boy when the subway opened, a university student when the Titanic sank, and a cub reporter for the Times when the US started shipping boys to the war in Europe. He’d survived his mother succumbing to influenza, he’d been an eyewitness to the bombing on Wall Street in 1920, and Times Square had become Times Square in his lifetime. He’d been getting his feet wet as a sports reporter the year Prohibition went into effect, though he still had a bottle of really good scotch that had been a gift from John McGraw after Walt had started covering the Giants. It sat unopened in his Greenwich Village apartment.
He’d been spending a lot of his downtime in the Times Square speakeasies for the past seven years, and he’d seen a hell of a lot there, too. He’d gotten caught up in raids, he’d seen a man poison himself with bad booze, he’d seen a couple of men get thrown out of a club for dancing together. He’d picked up sailors at the Hotel Astor; one had hit him hard enough to leave a bruise afterward. He’d once been picked up by a low-level mobster, and they had wild and imaginative sex in one of the most richly appointed houses Walt had ever seen. And after many years in the newspaper biz, he’d heard more secrets about New York’s swanky set than he was really comfortable with knowing.
As a boy, he’d seen Christy Mathewson pitch. He’d seen Ty Cobb perform feats of sportsmanship that seemed superhuman. He’d seen Babe Ruth hit more home runs than he could count. He’d watched careers begin and end and begin again.
After all that, he shouldn’t have been surprised by anything.
And yet Skip Littlefield surprised him.
Here was a quiet man who didn’t want any part of the spotlight and yet was doing something extraordinary. That didn’t astonish Walt any less now that he understood why Skip guarded his privacy so much. Walt couldn’t get the memory of that night out of his brain—talking over drinks, walking along Seventh Avenue, laughing at Carmela, all of it. And that kiss still burned on Walt’s lips. Had there ever been a kiss like that in the whole history of world? So sweet and yet so charged, spontaneous and open and just there on the street, and then it was over before Walt even got a chance to grasp onto it.
He strolled into the newsroom two days after their night out and saw the usual buzz of activity. Reinhold was hovering around Walt’s desk as Walt got to it.
“Fluke!” Reinhold said. “You’re such a fool, Selby. The new kid on the Giants you drooled all over in that article? Littlefield? He got totally balled up yesterday. Whiffed by every pitch thrown at him. Apparently McGraw is furious.”
Walt scoffed. “That’s not true.”
Reinhold grabbed a newspaper off a nearby desk and slapped it on Walt’s. It was open to the sports page. The headline said, “Giants Disappoint—Braves Win 5–2.”
Walt read the story with some measure of distress. Reinhold had exaggerated—Skip had gotten a hit in the seventh inning, though he hadn’t scored a run—but the game hadn’t gone well. Walt was inclined to believe this was the fluke, that Skip had just had a bad day, but he was hesitant to voice that opinion out loud. “He’ll be better today.”
Reinhold turned around. “Hey, Louis! Can we get the Giants game on the radio?”
Fifteen minutes later, Louis had turned on the radio in one of the meeting rooms. The crackly broadcast came through well enough for those assembled to discern it was the top of the fourth.
“Terry steps up to bat,” the announcer said. “First pitch. Terry swings and misses. Strike one. Second pitch. Oh, close one. Ump rules it a ball. Third pitch. Terry bunts! Oh, didn’t see that coming. Terry’s running. Welsh has the ball. He throws it to Bancroft. Bancroft throws to Fournier, but he’s too late. Terry is safe at first.”
“I like the New York announcers better,” Reinhold said.
“Hush,” said Walt.
The radio announcer said, “Littlefield is coming up to the plate. He’s the new kid from Ohio. Impressive stats so far, but he hasn’t done much here in Boston. He takes the stance. First pitch is… oh, strike one! Swing and a miss. Second pitch….”
Walt listened, his heart in his throat. He wished he could be at the game to see this. Not that he had any business interfering, but he couldn’t help but think if he were there, he could see what was really going on.”
“And that’s strike two!” said the announcer.
Walt cursed under his breath.
“Tut tut,” said Louis. “You’re letting your team allegiance show. What happened to objective reporting?”
“I cover baseball in New York City.
I’m allowed to root for the home team.”
Louis grinned. “Aw, I’m just razzing you, Selby.”
“Swing and a miss again!” said the announcer. “Littlefield is out. This is just not his game.”
Walt wondered if something was wrong with Skip. It seemed strange for him to be hitting this badly.
“When’s the next home game?” he asked the assembled crowd.
“Tuesday,” said Reinhold.
Walt made a mental note to make sure he was the one covering that game. He needed to see what was happening with his own eyes.
Chapter 4
WALT sat on the edge of his seat for most of the next game. From his vantage point behind third base, he could see into the Giants’ dugout, and Skip was definitely there, looking forlorn. Walt had managed to get a word with John McGraw before the game; McGraw had said Skip would sit this one out unless they needed a pinch hitter late in the game. That Walt found this disappointing was an understatement; he really wanted to see Skip play. But after the dismal performance in Boston, Walt understood McGraw’s decision to bench Skip.
Walt wasn’t sure where his faith in Skip had come from, besides Skip’s own analysis of the game. Walt supposed the proof was in the pudding—the series against the Braves notwithstanding, most of Skip’s at bats were spectacular. Walt was confident that if Skip were given room to fly, he’d take off. Keeping him chained to the bench was not the best use of him. Then again, he was a rookie on a team with a lot of talent. If not this season, then next… assuming the Giants didn’t let Skip go at the end of the season because of one bad series. Stranger things had happened.
It was a good game, well played and kind of a nail-biter, but the Giants ultimately pulled off a victory over the Pirates.
Walt spent a few minutes discussing the game with the other reporters in the press box, and then he walked with Charlie Segar of the Mirror to talk to a few players. He enjoyed listening to Segar talk; the man was from England originally, though he had spent most of his life in the US, so his accent was a little muddled. Walt had thought maybe it was an affectation at first—not that he judged, he thought as he fingered the purple lily on his lapel—but it didn’t much matter now that they’d gotten to know each other. The bottom line was that Segar loved baseball, and he buzzed with enthusiasm as they walked together into the bowels of the stadium.
Playing Ball Page 3
