Switch Pitchers

by Norman German

  “Hell yeah, I’m tired.”

  “You want to finish the game?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure? You look a little uneasy.”

  “I’m okay. Just need to get my focus back.”

  “Look,” Chozen said. Bobby looked. “Take your uneasiness.” Bobby nodded. “And transfer it to the batter.” Bobby nodded faster.

  Chozen turned and headed for the plate. Bobby reached out to pull him back, but it was too late. He thought Chozen was about to tell him how to transfer his uneasiness to the batter.

  When life was going smoothly, Bobby sailed through it in style, unruffled by any of the usual concerns: money, bills, children, a job. His work was playing the game he loved. When Bobby hit troubled waters, though, he was happy to look to someone else for guidance. During those times, he was always waiting for direction, for directions, for a direction. What should I throw, where should I go, what should I do, who should I love, and on through all the big questions of life.

  The advice he got this time was: Take your uneasiness and transfer it to the batter. It was like expecting a fastball and getting a curve.

  Bobby checked the runners on first and third. One out. He hated to pitch from a stretch. Transfer your uneasiness to the batter. The batter didn’t look nervous and he didn’t look intimidated. He looked determined. Bobby kept looking at the batter waving the tool of his trade like he planned to use it well and soon.

  Bobby placed his foot on the rubber, then looked at the ball. His tool. When he looked back toward the plate, for the first time in his life, he did not look at the catcher. He did not look for a signal. He looked right into the eyes of the batter, then back at the ball, then back at the batter.

  The bat stopped.

  Bobby didn’t know what Chozen had signaled. Didn’t care. He threw the best fastball he had left and he threw it with authority and the batter hit it hard to second, where Bill fielded it, dropped it, picked it up and backhanded it to Scoop, who in one motion caught it, pivoted, jumped to avoid the slide, and threw to first.

  It was not the best game Bobby had ever thrown, but his win-loss record was now 2-1, and he knew a pitcher could live a long time on that ratio.

  Chapter 9

  “BATTER up!” the umpire shouted to start the nightcap of the double-header.

  Cyrus Vance left his seat on the bench to look toward home plate. “Well, twirl my turban,” he said, “I thought I recognized that voice.” Cyrus broke into the popular song: “‘Well, twirl my turban, man alive! Here come Mister Five-by-Five!’”

  “Aw, horseshit,” Bobby said.

  Mr. Five-by-Five was the corpulent umpire with a tiny strike zone. Bobby hadn’t seen him since his Triple-A days in Little Rock, but he knew that umpires, like players, rose or fell with their talent.

  “His strike zone probably shrank as his waistline grew,” Cyrus said. “Then they sent him down on a cattle car.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. “He won’t give you the inside or outside corners, and that’s where I make my living.”

  “Nothing high in the strike zone either,” Cyrus added.

  Bobby shook his head. “Right, but at least that makes you a better pitcher. Keeps you from throwing the high fat one.”

  Cyrus launched into the song again. Several players joined in while Bobby fell silent. Hardie Nettles and Bill German stood and sang, pointing up and down, then left and right during the routine.

  Mister Five-by-Five,

  He’s five feet tall and he’s five feet wide.

  He don’t measure no more from head to toe

  Than he do from side to side.

  Harry Chozen patrolled down to the silly end of the dugout. “All right, boys. Y’all cut that stuff out. You know that kind of talk always comes back on you.”

  Bobby watched the Beaumont Roughnecks’ star southpaw strike out Charlie Harper. He knew he would have to throw his best game of the season to beat Keith Wiseman. Wiseman had only a mediocre fastball, but his arm, developed by four years of javelin throwing at Lamar State, carried him into the late innings with full strength.

  Bobby’s money pitch was also a fastball, even though the injury had sapped ten miles per hour from it. After healing the arm over the winter of 1946, he made his comeback playing Class D in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, was traded up in midseason to B somewhere in Minnesota, then threw a year of A ball in Amarillo, Texas. What he lost in speed, he made up for with control and knowledge. It was a hard climb to Double-A, but it was a class his pride could live with and it suited his comfort zone.

  Fingers two and three on Chozen’s hand were Bobby’s middling curve and good changeup. Chozen added finger four for his weak slider. Bobby had no fifth pitch. He had a screwball before the injury changed the position of his fingers, but now the fadeaway moved in a horizontal plane, and only a couple of inches.

  Wiseman went through the next two Lunker batters quickly, so Bobby had to rush to finish his cigarette. Walking to the mound, he shrugged his shoulders several times, trying to get his uniform top to feel right. He remembered the first batter. He had played right field for the Houston Buffs last year. Kopp. He didn’t remember his first name, but he was a sucker for pitches high and outside. Bobby threw the first pitch, a fastball to test the low outside corner. The umpire wouldn’t give it to him. Bobby received the ball from Chozen. As he walked up the mound, Bobby noticed his right shoe felt tight. To stretch it, he banged his heel against the hard dirt.

  Chozen called for an inside-corner fastball. Bobby knew his manager was also trying to establish the strike zone. Chozen didn’t have to move his mitt to catch the throw. The ump called it a ball.

  Bobby took a deep breath and looked into the blackness over the left-field light rack. He knew it was going to be a tough night. He reached down for the rosin bag and barely touched it. Chozen signaled curve and Bobby dropped it in for a called strike. Well, twirl my turban, Bobby thought, at least strike is still in his vocabulary.

  Chozen poked two fingers down again. Bobby waved it off. He threw a fastball that had just enough downward movement to draw a two-hopper to short for the first out.

  Two more fastballs put the second batter down in the count. Chozen asked for a changeup, which the batter drove foul over the left-field fence. Bobby wasted the next pitch outside. The rubber didn’t feel comfortable. His uniform didn’t sit right. He stared down the barrel of the strike zone at four fingers. He shook off the slider. “You must be joking,” he said to himself. He shook off the curve. Chozen paused, then shot a lone index finger down for the fastball. He positioned the catcher’s mitt low on the outside corner. Bobby knew the ump wouldn’t give it to him, so he threw closer to the middle third of the strike zone. The batter smashed the ball into left field for a single.

  As he massaged the ball, Bobby looked toward left field, then first base. He hitched his left shoulder several times. He took his stance and waited for the signal. Fastball. He checked first. Pitching from the stretch always took a little off Bobby’s fastball, so he pushed off the rubber for some extra speed. The ball sailed over Chozen’s head and the runner took second.

  Bobby drove his right heel into the mound to stretch the leather and loosen up his shoe. He looked toward home to receive the ball. He would be able to tell from the return if Chozen was angry. Instead, he saw the manager clacking his armor out to the mound.

  Chozen placed the ball in his pitcher’s glove. “What’s the matter, Bobby? You look like a squirrel in heat.”

  “Can’t get comfortable.”

  Chozen slapped him on the arm with his mitt. “Just transfer some of your nerves to the ball. You’ll be fine.” He turned and jogged back with the confidence of a catcher who had calmed a thousand pitchers.

  With his glove, Bobby pinched the left side of his shirt and pulled it away from his shoulder. He talked to himself, telling himself to take the jitteriness and channel it into his wrist, but keep it loose. Chozen gathered his fingers into a fist and th
rust four fingers down. The slider was his worst pitch and Chozen was asking him to throw it from the stretch. Thinking “no,” Bobby nodded “yes.”

  With the deep bow of his follow-through, Bobby usually could not see the movement on his pitches. This time he saw it, and it surprised him. The batter swung as the ball broke over the plate. Bobby fielded the chopper two steps to his right, held the runner on second with a quick look, and threw to first for out number two.

  Next, Chozen called for a fastball. Bobby felt his entire body relax. He threw faster when he was relaxed. The ball came off his fingers feeling good. He lost sight of it for the split second his head was down on the follow-through. He heard the bat make contact, but it was not solid. That meant the ball had good rotation and rose coming in. Bobby spun around. He didn’t look for the ball. He looked to see which way his outfielders were moving. Hardie Nettles made the easy catch to end the first inning.

  Bobby poured a cone of water from the cooler at the dugout’s entrance. He walked to the end of the bench and sat next to Ricardo, who was asleep in the corner, his head propped against his ancient, burnt-brown glove.

  Dickie Chozen ambled down the midway of the dugout working on a bag of popcorn. He reached the end and about-faced like a prisoner pacing his cell. A thought stopped him in his tracks and he stepped back. Bobby saw the grin grow on the batboy’s round face. Pretending to be a magician, he showed a piece of popcorn to his audience, then turned to Ricardo. He reached carefully over to place the popcorn in the Cuban’s open mouth.

  Bill German reached out and grabbed Dickie’s wrist. “Are you crazy, boy? Don’t you know better than to do that?”

  Dickie’s grin widened to a toothy smile. “You mean, before the bets are taken?”

  Bill turned loose of Dickie’s arm and ruffled the cap on his head. “That’s my boy. We gonna turn you into a Big Leaguer yet.”

  Dickie took off his cap and held it out for the bets.

  “I got a nickel says he wakes up,” Leo Tycer said, tossing the coin in.

  “A nickel?” Nettles mocked. “I got a quarter says he sucks on it like a sleeping baby on a sugar tit.”

  Suddenly the players clustered around Dickie like Mexicans at a cockfight. Some bet his mouth would close on the popcorn. Others said the sleeper would spit it out. “What if he don’t do nothing?” Lamb Daniels pointed out.

  Everybody looked around.

  “Where’s Rules when you need him?”

  “He’s on deck.”

  “And I’m in the hole,” Lamb said, “so I’m laying my dime that he don’t do nothing. That is one tired Sambo.”

  Dickie dropped the popcorn onto Ricardo’s tongue, and the men waited for things to develop.

  “What,” Chozen said, breaking through the silent crowd, “in the dark depths of unholiest Sheol is going on back here?” Dickie slapped his cap on as the sea of players parted for their Moses.

  Chozen looked down at the popcorn on Ricardo’s tongue, then at his son’s bag.

  “Dickie, you responsible for this?”

  Dickie looked sheepishly at his feet, then up at his father. He had been taught to hold a steady gaze when reprimanded. Chozen popped him on the side of the head, knocking his cap askew.

  “If you boys,” he said, turning to his players, “would stop clowning around and focus on the game you’re paid to play, we might rise out of the middle ranks.”

  A nickel slid out of Dickie’s cap and rang on the cement. Chozen looked at his son. Dickie was trying hard not to cry.

  “Son,” the father said, “if I knocked that cap off your head and found what I think I’d find, I’d have to wear your butt out in front of these men.” Chozen accused the team with his eyes. “Y’all know damn well the Pelicans just got fined for betting on their games. Now, I don’t want to see any gambling in this dugout.” He glanced down at Ricardo. “Not even on dumb shit like this.”

  He turned and walked away. The men shuffled to their seats. Bill patted Dickie on the shoulder and tightened the cap on the boy’s head.

  “Keep the change, sport. You earned it.”

  The men looked out at the field, trying to follow their manager’s command to focus on the game.

  Cagle took the first pitch to study Wiseman’s southpaw motion. He took the next pitch out of the park for the Lunkers’ first run. Bobby’s teammates erupted from the bench and cheered the Big Chief around the bases. Conserving his energy, Bobby kept his seat and smiled. He glanced at Ricardo to see if the excitement had disturbed him. The worn-out Cuban hadn’t moved. Bobby drew a deep, steady breath, then stood to choose a bat. Bobby hit sixth in the batting order, highest in the league for a pitcher.

  From the on-deck circle, Bobby watched Raul Atán work the count full. Bobby hated pitching against batters like Raul, but he loved having them on his side. Batters like Raul chipped off foul balls one after another and rarely swung at bad pitches. By the time they were done, the pitcher’s arm had ten or twelve throws subtracted from its 120-pitch life.

  Raul finally sliced a cheap single over first. As Bobby walked to the plate, he figured the pitcher would take his anger out on him, and he plotted how to turn it against him.

  He watched the first throw graze the outside corner. The umpire called it a ball. “Well,” Bobby thought, “at least he’s equally unfair to both teams.” Wiseman rocked back and double-pumped, so Bobby knew a javelin fastball was on its way. Leo Tycer, standing off third as the base coach, had given Bobby the “swing away” sign. Bobby had a sweet, level swing without much power, but he often made good contact and dropped balls between outfielders coming in and infielders hustling back.

  Bobby swung away, realizing too late he had been fooled by a fellow southpaw thinking one move ahead of him. Trying to slow his bat to meet the changeup, he hit a Sad Sack dribbler down the third-base line. The third baseman barehanded the ball and looked to second, then threw to first for the sure out. Bobby wasn’t as happy as he would have been with a solid single that drove Scoop to third, but he was happy for not hitting into a double play.

  “Good job,” Chozen said when Bobby approached the dugout. “Okay, Ziggy, drive Scoop home!” Chozen clapped his hands.

  To Zig Emory, a nervous batter, Double-A was an impenetrable ceiling. He had been hit so many times that he bailed at the least threatening curve. On the third pitch, Emory slapped a fly to shallow left that was snow-coned by the shortstop to end the Lunkers’ half of the second inning.

  Bobby set up the first two batters with pretended wildness that rocked them back on their heels, then used their fear to set them down. For his revenge, Emory caught the shortstop’s line drive over third base for the last out.

  The Lunkers left two men stranded to end their half of the third. In the bottom half, the Roughnecks’ second baseman, Henry Schroeder, yanked the first pitch, a hanging curve, all the way to the left-field fence, where Charlie Harper spoiled his home run with a leaping catch.

  Bobby took off his cap and swabbed his forehead on his sleeve. While the ball was coming in, Chozen ran out to the hill.

  “My fault, Bobby. We got away with that one. Just settle down. We’ll be all right.”

  The next batter was Hockenbury. Or Hickenberry. Bobby almost never remembered first names. A large-eared man of obscure origin, Hockbarry had played outfield for the Roughnecks since there had been a Gulf Coast League. Chozen settled into his crouch and called for a fastball away. Bobby shook off the signal. Chozen jabbed three fingers down. Bobby didn’t see much point in throwing a changeup before setting it up with a fastball, so Chozen signaled for a slider. Bobby didn’t feel he was ready for a slider this early in the inning. He stepped off the rubber and knocked his right heel on the mound, then shrugged his left shoulder twice. When he leaned over to take a new sign, Chozen showed one finger. Bobby shook it off.

  “Time,” Chozen called to the ump.

  Out at the mound, he said, “Bobby, what are you doing?”

  “Don’t yo
u remember this guy?”

  Harry looked over his shoulder. “Sure. He’s played a weak center field for Beaumont since God rested on the seventh day.”

  “And he hits outside fastballs,” Bobby said. “Remember our second exhibition game in March? He drove a first-pitch outside fastball into deep right for a triple.”

  It was not that Bobby studied hitters. He simply never forgot their strengths or weaknesses once he faced them a few times. In Chozen’s long career, Bobby German was the only pitcher, Majors or Minors, who knew more about the batters’ habits than he did.

  “Bobby,” Chozen said.

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you stay in college? If I had a memory like yours, I’d be a fat cat holding a stogie with soft fingers instead of an old catcher gripping a bat with these.” He turned his right palm up to Bobby, dirt worked deep into the calluses, some of them cracked and scabbed over with dried blood. “Now. What do you suggest?”