Switch Pitchers

by Norman German

  A voice down the bench pitched in. “Y’all give the guy a break. Rules can’t hit worth a crap, but he can field like a purple martin catching skeeters, and he wins five games a year for us just by knowing the rules.”

  Roberto laughed at the exchanges, observing his new teammates to get a feel for their personalities. When the players settled down to watch the next batter, Roberto spoke in a low voice to Raul. “They call you Scoop and Rules, so they call you Two-Name. But that make it three, so they should call you Three-Name. It is clear.”

  Raul slapped Roberto on the thigh. “You’re catching on, Rookie. You’re already catching on. You’ll be a veteran in no time.”

  “Roberto,” Chozen called from the end of the bench. “Pay attention. You’re on deck. Get a bat and get out there!”

  Roberto hit into a double play to end the sixth inning, then threw a strikeout, a ground out, and a pop fly to end the top of the seventh. When he returned to the dugout, he took his place between Raul and Bobby.

  Trying to be friendly, Roberto said to his fellow pitcher, “That is some grand pitching, no, Mr. Lucky Strike?”

  Bobby smiled at Roberto’s unusual phrasing. The Cuban reminded him of a kid, and he thought, You can’t help but like the guy, even if he is a spade. As long as Roberto was on the team, Bobby decided, he might as well give him some pointers that would help out the Lunkers.

  “That is some mucho grande pitching, yes,” Bobby said, as if Roberto were a boy he liked to tease. “But you can make it even better.”

  Roberto was surprised by the quiet man’s words. He swiveled toward him on the bench. “You can give me a for-example, then?”

  Bobby continued to gaze calmly out at the mound, watching Galveston’s pitcher take his last few warm-ups.

  “Fourth inning, third batter. What was the count when you struck him out?”

  Roberto’s head jerked back as if he were asked the square root of two. “What does it matter, my friend? I strike him out.”

  “Count was 1-and-2. You should have shaken off the fastball and thrown a curve or a changeup.”

  Roberto thought about this for a second. “They are all no different to me. They are just batters. I strike out them all.”

  Bobby nodded. “That was the same fellow that popped up to end the last inning. He’s closing in on you already.”

  Roberto looked quickly out to the plate. “How you can remember these many things?”

  “I remember because I have to. Anyone can win when their stuff’s working. But when you tire in the late innings, you better know more about the batter than he knows about you. You were starting to tire out there.”

  “Me? Tire?” Roberto expelled a confident burst of air. “In Cuba, we pitch sometimes every other day. We have the stronger arms.”

  Bobby nodded.

  Five minutes later, Judge Carlton’s voice marked the end of the inning. “No runs, no hits, no errors. Aaand . . . P.S., folks. No men left on base.”

  Roberto grabbed his glove and worked his way to the dugout’s exit. When he was about to step onto the field, Chozen grabbed his arm and patted him on the back once.

  “Okay, Roberto, that’s enough for tonight. Good job.”

  Surprised at the move, Roberto blurted out, “But my arm, it is not tired.”

  Chozen stared at him patiently.

  When Roberto understood, he said, “Mr. Chozen, sir.” Only then did he notice Chozen was not wearing his catching gear.

  Chozen nodded approval. “You’ve had a long trip today,” he said. “By rail or bus or thumb. And it was starting to show in that last inning. You did a great job your first outing. No sense pushing it, Roberto. You got your whole career ahead of you.”

  Roberto looked out at the mound. Bill German was motioning to the new catcher, cycling through his pitches. When Roberto returned to his place next to Bobby, Leo called out to Bill, “Come on, Striker! Shut this thing down so we can knock a beer back before midnight!”

  The batter sliced the first pitch into shallow left for a single. Roberto shook his head. “I thought you call him Striker.” Nobody said anything. After a while, Roberto tried again. “This man is a Striker?

  Leo said, “Watch.”

  When the next batter was set, Bill took the signal and went into his stretch. He checked the runner, looked toward home, then, right when the runner glanced at second, Bill spun and picked him off.

  Leo laughed. “That’s why we call him Striker. He doesn’t get many strikeouts, but he picks men off like a snake striking a mouse.”

  Bill went into his regular windup and threw a journeyman curve the batter grounded through the gap off third.

  Roberto lamented, “Aw, man. This Striker, he is ruining my game.”

  Bill threw three straight balls to the next batter, lulling the runner into a false sense of security. Now the runner knew Bill had to throw a strike. To prevent a double play, the runner took a generous lead. At the moment he glanced toward first to check his position, Bill whirled and caught him off guard. The move was so quick, the runner didn’t even dive for the bag. He surrendered like a prisoner of war by walking passively into the tag.

  The men on the bench laughed and clapped.

  One said, “Like a snake striking a mouse.”

  “Like a deer stunned in the headlights,” said another.

  Imitating Roberto’s accent, Leo said, “This Striker, he is like a lizard spanking flies off a leaf with his tongue, no?”

  Bill intentionally threw a fourth ball and walked the batter. The new runner had seen the fate of his teammates. He stayed close to the bag throughout the at-bat. Bill worked the count to 2-and-2 on the next man, who fouled off three balls. The runner noticed Bill wasn’t watching him close anymore—probably had to give his full attention to the batter, he thought. He stretched his stingy lead a few inches and glanced toward second. It looked like a big, easy marshmallow. When Bill made his motion toward home, the runner took off.

  The catcher stood and received the pitchout like the battery mates had practiced the move all season. And they had. When the runner reached second, he deflated like a man-shaped balloon with a fast leak.

  “Snake, mouse,” someone said.

  “Deer, headlights,” someone else said.

  “Lizard, fly,” Leo finished.

  In the bottom of the eighth, Hardie Nettles came to bat with two out and none on. He connected sixty percent of the time, averaging .312 last year—good for the Majors, merely respectable against Double-A pitching—but he rarely hit for power. So everyone was surprised by the crack of a 3-and-0 fastball meeting the barrel of his bat.

  All the Lunkers jumped from the bench and clutched the chain links to watch the white ball shrink against the black between the left- and center-field light racks.

  The sportscaster’s voice, which had been winding down for the evening, came to life. Most of Judge Carlton’s pronouncements were canned. This one was not.

  “Look at that pill travel, folks. It’s up, it’s out, it’s in the stratosphere! You can bet it’s ‘Goodnight Irene’ to that one, folks, because you’re only gonna see it in your dreams. And that’s my ruling!” The judge rapped his gavel once, hard.

  Polly Lutner, the prim, plump, gray-haired organist of the First Baptist Church, had been playing “In the Sweet By and By” after every home run for eight years. This time, she broke into a jazzed up version of “Goodnight Irene.” The crowd cheered and whistled and roared with laughter.

  Judge Carlton yelled into his mike, “Polly, I didn’t think you had it in you, baby.”

  When Nettles crossed the plate, the fans tried the new chorus. After they fumbled with the words, Polly played the refrain again and they sounded more confident the second time.

  I-rene, goodnight. I-rene, goodnight.

  Goodnight, Irene, goodnight, Irene,

  I’ll see you in my dreams.

  Everyone was having fun. The Lunkers had not had this kind of outing in quite a while. With th
e advent of Roberto Alemán, the fans were feeling that good times were here at last.

  One person, though, was not participating in the carnival atmosphere. Expressionless and pale, Bobby’s face was tilted up to the speaker over the dugout, asking it a silent question like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The tune that sparked enthusiasm in the fans drew a dormant but profound sadness from the lean, handsome pitcher who suddenly looked much older than his twenty-six years.

  When the game was over, the team double-timed it out of the dugout and into the clubhouse, the metal-on-concrete of their cleats singing a happy song. The last one to the door was Bobby. He paused, then turned and walked slowly back to the dugout. Chozen sat by himself at the end of the bench, working quietly over a clipboard.

  Bobby took off his cap and stepped into the dugout, ducking his head needlessly. He knew Chozen was aware of his presence. Running his fingers around the hem of his cap, Bobby stood by his manager, waiting for him to finish. When the pencil stopped, he spoke.

  “Mr. Chozen.”

  Harry held up his left hand and went back to writing for a while, then looked up.

  “What you got, Bobby?”

  Harry Chozen was bent over by twenty years of catching—rising through the A ranks, then two years with Cincinnati, three with Connie Mack’s Philadelphia Athletics, being hit by foul tips and follow-throughs, some intentional, cleats to his legs, elbows to his face, descending the A ladder, six years in Triple-A, two in Double, a final gasp in Triple-A, followed by five years as player-manager with the Lunkers—but when he looked up at the young pitcher, his gray eyes were peaceful.

  “Was I ever that fast?” Bobby tilted his head toward the deserted mound.

  “In Little Rock?”

  The manager looked out at the mound as if he were watching Roberto go through his motion, then looked up at his star southpaw. The straight-forward honesty of his voice was tempered by compassion. “Bobby, you were fast. But you weren’t that fast.”

  Bobby hung his head. “I didn’t think so. Just checking.”

  Harry Chozen returned to his work on the clipboard.

  Chapter 8

  THE next day, Roberto’s twin made his dropped-from-the-sky appearance after the team had boarded the bus and Harry Chozen was grinding into first gear. Through the cracked side mirror, the manager saw his new man, broken in two parts, hustling with a half-filled duffle bag to catch up with the bus before it left the clamshell parking lot of Legion Field. He slowed enough for Ricardo to come even with the folding door, then opened it a bit.

  “Sorry! Can’t help you,” Chozen hollered. “This ain’t a public bus.”

  “No, I am the pitcher of many balls from Cooba,” Ricardo said, waving frantically. “I am report to you to pitch for the Lake Charles.”

  Chozen called through the high end of first gear and the waterfall sound of tires on shell, “Got papers to prove it?”

  “Sí, señor, if you will to stop, I get them out of my talego.”

  “Can’t spare the time, amigo,” Chozen said. “We have a game in Beaumont this afternoon and we’re late already. Tell you what, though.” Chozen pointed ahead. “You find the papers before I reach that stop sign, you can ride. In fact, if you can prove you’re Roberto’s brother, I’ll pitch you tonight. How’s that sound?”

  Backed by the raucous laughter of his players, Chozen shifted into second. When the bus reached First Avenue, the more sporting team members hung out of the windows to cheer on the Cuban as he ran digging in his duffle bag.

  “Find ’em yet?” Chozen asked as Ricardo pulled even with the bus at the stop sign.

  “No, señor, but they are here.” Chozen lurched the bus away from the intersection and Ricardo cantered alongside, continuing to fish for the papers.

  Chozen looked up the road. “Tell you what. There’s another stop sign on Fifth Street. That’s two blocks up.” Chozen nodded his head to point the way. “If you can show me something by then, I’ll let you on. But you better wave as soon as you find anything. We’re wasting daylight. I don’t see you waving in my mirror, I’m gone, comprende?”

  “Sí, señor.” Ricardo was running now and digging frantically.

  Chozen jolted the bus into second gear. Ricardo fell behind and dropped to one knee, stripping white shirts and underwear from the green canvas bag, then littering the street with his shoes and old glove. The players saw the motion of his mouth as he hollered and waved the white paper. Chozen pushed the clutch in and coasted to the stop sign on Fifth. As the entire team moved to the sidewalk side of the bus to encourage Ricardo, their roadship listed to starboard. When Ricardo arrived, sweating and blowing, Chozen opened the door a peek.

  “Let’s see what you got,” he said through the opening.

  Ricardo folded the paper and slipped his hand through the crack.

  “That’s enough,” Chozen said. He pinched the door shut on Ricardo’s wrist and took the paper. Chozen, pretending to inspect the document with all the gloom of a Mexican border guard, eased his foot off the clutch. The bus rolled slowly forward, making Ricardo break into a trot.

  “Señor! Señor!” Ricardo screamed. “My hand, it is caught! Stop the bus quickly. That is my peetching hand!”

  Chozen hit the brake, whipping Ricardo forward, then opened the door to release his hand, sending him sprawling onto the concrete. After Ricardo recovered from his fall, Chozen told him to run back and pick up his gear. When his tardy player stepped up into the bus, Chozen said, “Now, sit down.”

  Heaving to catch his breath, Ricardo looked around at his new teammates scrambling for their seats as if it were a Chinese fire drill. He spotted an open place and started for it.

  “No,” Chozen said, grabbing Ricardo’s arm like a child’s. “Right there.” He pointed to the dusty steps of the stairwell. “Sit right there.”

  Still breathing hard, Ricardo frowned and sat on the floor. He wiped his sweaty forehead on his short sleeve, then worked the duffle bag under his armpit and leaned against it.

  Ricardo tried to recover his dignity with humor, exclaiming, “I almost missa the Big Fish bus!”

  The passengers erupted with laughter. Since the Lake Charles Lunkers had come into being in 1944, they made their road trips in a school bus painted dull white. In 1950, local artist and baseball fan Susan Ronald volunteered to stencil the team’s name across the bus in exchange for season tickets along the first-base line. Inspired by her own generosity over the weekend she was given the bus, Susan painted a huge green largemouth bass leaping over the black-outlined gold lettering. After that, it had been dubbed the Lunkermobile.

  Chozen was not amused by Ricardo’s attempt to entertain his troops. He preserved his silence the three blocks to Broad Street, then slow-rolled through the stop sign. He leaned into the turn, his muscular hands gripping the wheel like he might be thinking of choking Ricardo. Reaching cruising speed through town, Chozen kept his eyes on the road. “Where’s your brother?”

  After a short silence, Lamar Cagle, who was sitting in the first seat, nudged Ricardo’s shoulder with the toe of his shoe. Ricardo looked up at Cagle, who tossed his head in the direction of his manager.

  Surprised, Ricardo whipped toward Chozen. “Me, señor? You are asking me where is my bro-thair?” Chozen shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what kind of schlemiel he had been given to babysit. “Meester Chozen, sir, I have not seed him since together we left on separate buses from the Key West.”

  At the end of Broad, without speaking, Chozen stared at the traffic light through its entire red cycle, then turned south onto Shellbeach Drive. This made Ricardo uneasy. He liked to talk and he liked to make people laugh. He half-stood to look around and get his bearings. Off to his right was the lake and in the distance a tall, pyramid-shaped bridge missing its crown.

  “Ricardo,” Chozen said bluntly.

  Ricardo sat back down. “Yes, Meester Chozen, sir?”

  Chozen guided the bus into the long, sweep
ing curve around the lake.

  “Ricardo, I’ve been reading your scouting report.” Chozen tapped the clipboard in a box folder attached to the side of his seat. He looked down at his new charge. “You have more pitches than I got fingers on both hands. You have any idea how in the hell I’m supposed to tell you what to throw?”

  “Sir, you no need to tell me what to t’row. I will take the signal from your catcher, who is good, I am sure.”

  “Ricardo.”

  “Yes, señor, sir?”

  “I am the catcher.”

  Ricardo gasped. “Lo siento, señor. I did not know in these rich United States the coach must have to play as in Cooba they play.”