Double Play
Page 17
I bought some peanuts and a program and found my seat on the third-base side. I watched batting practice. I watched infield practice, and the long lazy fungoes being hit to the outfielders. I watched some of the players run sprints in the outfield, and as the sky darkened and the lights took hold, I watched the two pitchers go to the bullpens and begin their warmups. Ralph Branca for the Dodgers. Warren Spahn for the Braves.
I was sitting among Negroes, between two heavy black women. I was alone, a slender white boy too young to shave. They asked me where I was from. I said Boston. They asked me what I was doing there. I said I was a Dodgers fan and wanted to see Jackie. One of the women announced this loudly to the group.
“This boy done come all the way from Boston to see our Jackie.”
She made Boston a long word. Everyone applauded. Some cheered. I imagined that Red Barber, high up in the catbird’s seat, might notice and remark that they’re tearing up the pea patch over there in the stands behind third. The world exfoliated around me. The Dodger Sym-Phony was marching back and forth. Hilda Chester was ringing her cowbell. Eddie Bettan was blowing his whistle. I was here, unaccompanied, unsupervised, alone, limitless and free, under the lights, in Ebbets Field, watching the Dodgers, applauded by the fans.
Box Score 9
51.
IT WAS A night game with the Braves. Burke was where he always sat near the dugout. Barber and Desmond were in the broadcast booth. The Dodger Sym-Phony was marching back and forth. Hilda Chester was ringing her cowbell. Eddie Bettan was blowing his whistle. Everything’s in place, Burke thought, all the way it should be.
The Braves went down in order in the top of the first. Stanky led off for the Dodgers in the bottom of the first and singled to left against Johnny Sain. Robinson was up next. Cash slipped into the seat next to Burke.
“Where’s the girl?” Cash said.
“My place,” Burke said.
“She all right?”
Burke nodded.
“She gonna stay with you?” Cash said.
Burke nodded again. Cash was silent.
“I’m leaving town,” Cash said.
“Where you going?” Burke said.
“L.A.,” Cash said. “Lotta work out there.”
“Your kind of work,” Burke said.
“Yeah.”
They both watched Robinson foul off a curve ball.
“You turned out to be a pretty good guy,” Burke said.
“Funny how that happens,” Cash said.
Robinson took ball one.
“Good luck in L.A.,” Burke said.
Cash nodded.
Robinson swung and missed for strike two.
“Good luck with the girl,” Cash said.
Burke nodded.
Sain came inside to Robinson with a curveball that didn’t break the way it was supposed to. It hit Robinson in the rib cage. Burke knew it wasn’t intentional. You didn’t hit somebody with a pitch when you had them down in the count 1–2. Without glancing at Sain he trotted down to first. He showed no sign that it hurt.
“I left you a little going-away present,” Cash said.
He handed Burke the next day’s early edition of The Daily News. Burke looked at him silently for a moment.
“Page three,” Cash said.
“I’ll take a look,” Burke said.
Reese came to the plate with two on and no outs. The excitement at Ebbets Field was palpable. Cash stood.
“See you around,” Cash said.
“Yeah,” Burke said. “You ever need anything . . .”
“Sure,” Cash said.
He paused for a moment, then nodded his head at Burke and turned and walked up the steps and into the runway. On the first pitch from Sain, Reese hit into a double play. Carl Furillo fouled out to Bama Rowell in left.
Burke opened the tabloid to page 3. The headline read MURDER ON THE WEST SIDE. There was a picture of a man lying facedown on a flat surface. The lead paragraph began, “Alleged West Side mobster Gennaro Paglia was found shot to death last night, in the men’s room of a midtown restaurant.” Burke glanced back at the runway. But Cash was gone. Burke looked at the empty runway for a long minute, then folded the paper without reading further. Bob Elliott led off the top of the second.
52.
JACKIE WAS WEARING a gray tweed topcoat with raglan sleeves and a military collar, turned up. It was two weeks to Christmas and snowing. Not a heavy snow, big flakes that came softly and were very white where they landed on Jackie’s bare head. Burke wore a trench coat. He too was bareheaded, and between the two men, Lauren wore a camel’s hair coat with a scarf over her hair. They were standing near the statue of Prometheus, looking down at the ice skaters.
“Mr. Rickey says I’m on my own next year,” Jackie said.
Burke nodded, looking at the skaters.
“And I’m out of work,” Burke said.
Lauren glanced carefully at each man, then back at the skaters. She didn’t speak. The skaters were moving to “Beautiful Ohio,” which Burke thought was probably a waltz. Burke had his arm around Lauren. Jackie stood on the other side of her, not touching.
“Well,” Jackie said, “you won’t miss the travel.”
“No,” Burke said. “I won’t.”
He looked at Robinson over Lauren’s head. Robinson looked back at him. They were silent for a time. Lauren looked up at both of them again and still said nothing. The skaters moved softly below street level, on the dark ice, in the comforting snow, under the Christmas glitter, with Rockefeller Center rising above them into the snowfall. The music stopped for a moment, then returned. “Beautiful Ohio” was replaced by “Blue Danube.”
“I couldn’t have made it,” Jackie said to Burke, “without you.”
“Me either,” Burke said.
Lauren didn’t speak. She kept her head against Burke’s shoulder and her right arm around his waist. As the skaters circled below them, she put her left arm around Robinson’s waist.
• • •
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