Playing Ball

by Kerry Freeman

  “Hell of a hit Roush got in the seventh,” Segar said. “He may hit enough balls to justify his salary yet.”

  Walt chuckled. “I liked the way Harper looked this game. And Bill Terry and even Hornsby.”

  “I could have sworn Hornsby was going to retire last year, but he’s still doing great things.”

  “It’s a good team we’ve got here in Manhattan. Almost enough to make you forget the Bronx exists.”

  Segar grinned. “I’m going to go talk to McGraw. You need anything?”

  “Nah, I’m fine.”

  Segar shook Walt’s hand and walked away. Walt lingered in the hallway outside the locker room and caught players as they left, asking each a couple of questions about the game and dutifully writing their answers in his notepad. Since this was mostly a pretense, he wasn’t sure how much he would use, but at least the Giants could discuss a victory instead of a defeat, and everyone seemed happy and enthusiastic.

  He got stuck talking to Rogers Hornsby for nearly ten minutes while Hornsby talked his ear off about strategy. Walt started writing that story in his head—“It’s clear Hornsby’s interest is more in coaching than playing these days….”—but then he almost lost sight of the real reason he’d come to the locker room.

  Skip walked out with a bag on his shoulder. When he caught sight of Walt, he stopped short and stared for a moment. Then, perhaps seeing that Walt was embroiled in this conversation with Hornsby, he took a deep breath and kept walking.

  Walt said, “Would you excuse me?” and ducked away from the conversation before Hornsby could object. He glanced back and saw that Hornsby had already thrown an arm around one of the rookies, probably giving the poor kid advice.

  Walt had to jog to catch up to Skip. He hooked a hand around Skip’s elbow and pulled him to a shadowy spot off to the side of the hallway that led out of the stadium.

  Skip’s eyes went wide.

  Walt’s heart pounded. He took a deep breath and said, “Did you see the article?”

  “About me?” Skip shook his head.

  “It ran Thursday.”

  “I was in Boston.”

  “I know, but I thought maybe… well, I’ve got a copy. I can show it to you.”

  Skip bit his lip and nodded.

  Walt almost offered to read Skip the story, but worried that would offend him. Instead, he said, “All good things, I promise. I think you’re a savant when it comes to baseball.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It’s a French word. It means genius.”

  Skip shook his head. “McGraw didn’t let me play today. He said maybe I could pinch-hit, but he put Ott in instead.”

  “I know.” Walt added softly, “What happened in Boston?”

  Skip grunted and looked down the hall, where Hornsby was now holding court before a gaggle of other players. “I can’t talk about it here.”

  “Meet me tonight. Out somewhere. Just to talk. I promise I won’t print anything.”

  Skip looked around, looked at anything except Walt, and then said, “Yes, I… yes. Where?”

  “Speakeasy on West Third. Is it okay if I write it down?”

  Skip nodded.

  It had been a spontaneous decision to invite Skip to a place so close to his apartment. So Walt wrote down the speakeasy’s address and drew a little map. “Take the Sixth Avenue El to Bleecker. It’s not far from there.”

  Walt watched Skip stare at the map, apparently trying to decipher it. It occurred to him that Skip might have a learning disorder of some type. His intelligence was apparent, particularly when he talked about baseball, so it struck Walt as odd that he couldn’t read well. But there had been a fascinating article Walt had read not long before about dyslexia that had detailed a teenager of normal intelligence who nevertheless struggled with reading. The scientist who wrote about the case thought the teenager had something wrong with his brain that made it difficult to process information correctly.

  It brought everything Skip had said during their night together into clearer focus. Skip thought himself stupid, but he really wasn’t.

  “I think I can find it,” Skip said.

  “Worst case, you can ask for directions. Oh, I have a telephone, too. You can call me anytime. I wrote the number there at the bottom.”

  Skip folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. He looked over Walt’s shoulder, so Walt glanced back and saw that Hornsby’s party was breaking up.

  “I’d better go,” Walt said, “but I will see you tonight, all right?”

  “A word, Littlefield!” Hornsby bellowed.

  Skip nodded. The faintest of smiles danced across his lips. “Tonight. Yes.” Then he went to talk to Hornsby.

  Chapter 5

  SKIP liked the elevated trains a little better than the subway, though he didn’t think he would ever get used to the noise. At least the elevated trains were above ground, and the open windows let in plenty of air. In the subway, Skip always worried he would suffocate.

  He got off the train at Bleecker and walked down the stairs to street level. He was immediately turned around. Three different streets all seemed to intersect at this spot, and Skip had no idea which turn to make.

  He pulled Walt’s piece of paper out of his pocket. Walt had even drawn a triangle with a cross on it, which helped Skip figure out that he should walk in the direction of the church on the corner. He took a deep breath and followed the directions.

  He rounded a corner onto West Third Street and saw Walt standing there, leaning against the building’s brick exterior. Even with his hat pulled over his eyes and a cigarette dangling from his lips, Skip would have recognized him. He knew the shape of Walt now, knew his stance, knew the details of his lanky body.

  Skip cleared his throat. Walt looked up and smiled. He flicked at the brim of his hat with his finger, revealing his face. “Glad you could make it. I was worried you’d get lost.”

  “Your little map helped.”

  “I should hope so! I’ve lived in this neighborhood most of my life. Come on.”

  Skip followed Walt into what looked like a restaurant, but instead of stopping to eat, Walt led Skip to the back. There, Walt knocked on the door three times in quick succession and then twice slowly. A piece of metal slid across the top of the door and a set of eyes gazed out.

  “Where were you last night?” said a voice from behind the door.

  “The Ariston Hotel,” said Walt.

  The eyes disappeared. A moment later, the door swung open. Walt greeted the guy guarding the door amiably and then led Skip down a staircase. When they got to the landing, Skip asked, “Did you know that guy?”

  “No. That’s just the password procedure here.”

  The room was dimly lit, but before Walt even found them a table, Skip could tell he was in a room almost exclusively populated by men. There was a woman with a sweet, melodious voice crooning softly with a band in the corner, and another dancing with a man in front of the band, but otherwise, Skip didn’t see anyone female.

  That wasn’t too strange. Skip had been to plenty of male-only spaces in Columbus. But he’d thought the women of New York were more free than that, were allowed in more places. He glanced back toward the man dancing with the woman near the band. He had a narrow waist and wide hips and some bulk at his chest that the white shirt he had on was fighting to contain. There was certainly no Adam’s apple.

  Where had Walt brought him?

  They found an empty table and sat together. Walt did some kind of song and dance with a waiter, and soon enough they were supplied with glasses containing alcohol of some sort. Walt sniffed his and gave a tiny sip.

  “The rotgut here is a little suspicious. I think it’s whiskey,” Walt said. “But I couldn’t swear to it. It kind of tastes like it was made in a bathtub, soap and all.”

  Skip held the glass to his nose and sniffed it. It smelled off and was harsh on his nose. “Do you think this coffin varnish is safe to drink?”

&n
bsp; “I don’t see anyone dying.”

  Skip took a sip and thought there was something odd about the taste, like whiskey mixed with detergent. Maybe it would be better to just pretend to drink it and keep his wits about him, especially given what had happened the last time he’d gone with Walt to a speakeasy.

  They were silent for a moment. Skip was hoping Walt would postpone asking about Boston, but naturally the next thing out of Walt’s mouth was “So what happened in Boston? And don’t say nothing, because I know that’s not true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I realize I’ve only seen you play once, but between seeing you and talking to you, I know you have a real aptitude for the game. I listened to the radio broadcasts of a couple of the games in Boston, and I could tell you weren’t playing well. So what happened?”

  Skip hesitated to answer. He wanted to be honest—and couldn’t think fast enough to come up with a lie anyhow—but it was a lot to confess. Skip changed the subject. “What did you say in your article?”

  Walt’s eyebrows shot up, but then he nodded. “You want to know if you can trust me.” He reached into his jacket and extracted a folded-up newspaper page. “Take a look.”

  Skip had to concentrate, but he read that the headline said, “New Rookie Could Be Giants’ Ticket to Victory.” He very slowly looked over the first paragraph, willing the words not to flip around on the page. “Skip Littlefield is a quiet man from Ohio, new to New York and wide-eyed to its splendors.” He got stuck on that last phrase because he wasn’t sure what it meant. He sighed and kept reading. “He also knows more about baseball and this year’s NL teams than any other person in the game.”

  He continued to read, but kept getting frustrated, coming up against unfamiliar words and realizing it was taking him a long time. He glanced up at Walt, who was looking at him expectantly. That only served to make Skip more self-conscious.

  Still, he was relieved. “You didn’t say anything about—” Skip held a hand to his chest and then gestured toward Walt. He had already known Walt hadn’t printed anything incriminating, because no one had said anything in the almost week since the article had been published, but it was nice to have that confirmed.

  “I don't peddle in petty gossip, Skip. Well, not often, anyway. And I wouldn’t print something like that. Partly because it would implicate me also, but partly because it’s not fair and it’s not anyone else’s business.”

  Skip nodded and handed the article back.

  “Did you finish it? I said a lot of nice things about you.”

  “I can’t finish it.” That was a hard thing to admit, but it would have taken Skip all night to read the whole thing.

  Walt nodded. “Well. Maybe it won’t amount to anything, but it’s some good press, both for you and for the Giants. John McGraw liked the article.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. I talked to him before the game today. He has faith in you too, you know. He pulled you from the lineup because he thought you might have been overthinking something and you needed a break. But that’s not it, is it?”

  Walt had gotten them right back around to the question at hand. “No,” Skip said.

  Walt’s face softened. “You can tell me.”

  Skip took a moment to think about whether he could trust Walt. He thought maybe he could. Plus, he wanted something to happen here. Something had to. This was the crux of his problem, the waiting and wondering and wanting, the not being able to tell what was right or what he should do.

  “I was distracted,” Skip said.

  “By what?”

  “You. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  IT HAD been a risk bringing Skip to Julian’s. The speakeasy had been running out of the basement of the rotating restaurants at street level since Prohibition began, and somewhere along the line it had become the Village’s haven for the queer set. Walt loved this place, though he hadn’t come in a while, preferring to make himself seen in Times Square, thinking that lent him a mask of sorts to cover what he really wanted to be doing. Most of the faces in tonight’s crowd at Julian’s were strangers, but the people he did know were all people he trusted.

  Walt sensed Skip knew what this place was about, and he seemed unfazed. Perhaps that was what gave him the courage to make his confession.

  “Me?” Walt asked, still astonished.

  “I was… confused.”

  “What confused you, exactly?”

  Skip looked around the room. Walt didn’t like this tendency of Skip’s to look around when he was nervous, because it made it harder to read his moods. Then Skip said, “I was appalled by my own behavior that night we went out last week.”

  “Why? You did nothing embarrassing.”

  “Yes, I did. I made a complete fool of myself. I risked baseball, the only thing I’m any good at. I’m glad you wrote a nice story about me, but what if you hadn’t? What if I got fired?”

  “You won’t. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “I know that now. I didn’t know that when I was on the train up to Boston. I just got to thinking about all the stupid things I’d let myself do. But more than that, I couldn’t stop thinking about you and how much I wanted to see you again.”

  That was more like it. Walt smiled. “I thought about you a lot, too. Almost constantly.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I wish I could have seen you play today.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Skip took a tentative sip of his drink. He winced and put it back down. “I need to do something about this.”

  “The bad hooch?”

  Skip laughed and shook his head. “No. This… whatever I’m feeling. I don’t like it.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Walt asked, wondering if his instincts were right.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “This place is safe,” Walt said. “Everyone here is like us. You can be honest.”

  Skip looked around with a frown on his face. Walt looked too, hoping to understand what Skip saw. Walt saw men in couples or small groups, sitting around tables, talking or touching. The mood seemed somber tonight, which was unusual, but maybe it was the soft music from the band making everyone quiet and introspective.

  “What is it that you want?” Walt asked. “If, for just a moment, the outside world did not exist, what would you want most in the world?”

  Skip leaned back for a moment. Then he leaned forward. He spoke softly. “Baseball. And you.”

  Walt took a chance and kissed Skip. This kiss was just as magical as the first had been, one for the record books, as far as Walt was concerned. It was slick and hot and soft and sweet. Walt lifted his hand to cup Skip’s cheek and leaned into it more, enjoying the way Skip pressed back, how their lips slipped together easily.

  Skip pulled away and then looked around with wide eyes.

  “No one is paying attention to us,” Walt said, “and if they were, they don’t care that we’re two men. Stop worrying.”

  “It doesn’t feel right to do that in public.”

  Walt understood that. “I’ll tell you what we should do. I live two blocks from here. You should come with me to my apartment.” At Skip’s increasingly shocked and worried expression, Walt said, “Nothing will happen unless you want it to. We can have a drink or we can talk or we can do… other things.”

  Skip took a series of deep breaths. Walt’s insides began to churn as he waited for Skip to make a decision. He wanted Skip, all right, wanted to get underneath the outdated suit and see what that body looked like. But there was something really special about this man, too, something Walt hoped to tap into. Skip intrigued him, kept him interested, kept him guessing. It was hard to surprise a man like Walt, and yet Skip had daily since the moment they’d met, even while he was out of town.

  “Yes,” Skip said. “Let’s go. Before I change my mind.”

  Walt stood, picking up his hat as he did so. He adjusted t
he yellow carnation on his lapel so it stood just so. Skip stood too, smoothed the front of his jacket, and then picked up his own hat, the beat-up looking bowler that looked fifteen years old.

  “We will discuss your wardrobe at a future date,” Walt said.

  “What’s wrong with my wardrobe?”

  “Maybe those old clothes got you by in Ohio, but this is New York.”

  Skip frowned and looked down at his shirt. Walt thought maybe he hadn’t picked the right time to comment on Skip’s sartorial choices. He chuckled, trying to lighten the air around them. “Come on.”

  They left Julian’s and walked over to Sullivan, where Walt lived on the top floor of a three-story brick building tucked in off the street. It wasn’t glamorous—not like the brownstone off Washington Square Park where he’d grown up—but it was his and it was private.

  Walt let Skip into the apartment. Skip looked around, probably both taking it in and avoiding looking at Walt. That was all right; Walt was willing to let things build, to wait until Skip trusted him.

  Skip ran his fingers along the edges of Walt’s furniture, dragging his fingertips along the top of the sofa, over the little table where Walt ate sometimes, over the desk off to the side and the armoire where Walt kept off-season clothing. He peeked into Walt’s rarely used kitchen and glanced toward the bedroom without getting near it. That was probably too dangerous. Walt was content to let Skip explore.

  “My apartment is really different,” Skip said. “Well, I share it with two other fellas from the team, so it’s a mess all the time. This place is so tidy.”