Switch Pitchers

by Norman German

  Chozen ran out to the umpire citing the rule that each runner, including the batter, should be advanced three bases “if a fielder deliberately touches a fair ball with his cap.” That brought Cagle home to tie the score and put Ziggy on third.

  Then a check-swing triple by Hardie “Badballs” Nettles drove in Ziggy. Bill German relieved Ricardo in the bottom of the ninth to save the Cuban’s first victory.

  Much of the Lunkers’ open day was spent driving to Laredo. During fielding practice before the double-header, the baseball was ricocheting around like a pinball. The ballpark of the Laredo Jackrabbits, who were in their first season, was used for other festivities, most of them involving horses, so the field was moon-pocked by thousands of hoof marks.

  The Lunkers finished the top of the first inning with one run. After Tycer took the mound, Ricardo said to Cyrus Vance, “Mr. Peanut Butter, I believe this double-header we will split.”

  Barely paying attention, Cyrus said, “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “Because before the game, when I piss, I make two streams.”

  Cyrus laughed.

  By the eighth inning, Charlie Harper had sprained an ankle by tripping in a horseshoe impression, and Bill sported a glistening black eye from a bad hop. The score was 8-4 in favor of the Lunkers, and Roberto was scheduled to pitch the nightcap.

  On the bench, Cyrus said to Ricardo, “Still have confidence in your snake-tongued piss stream? With Roberto pitching, it would take a miracle from hell to lose the next game.”

  Ricardo pouted like a child. “In Cooba, we believe in omens, both the good and the bad.” He backed up his statement with a dollar bet.

  When the first ballgame ended, the Lunkers had a five-game win streak.

  The second contest started an hour before sundown.

  “Let’s get some early runs,” Chozen urged his players. “There’s a storm coming in from the Gulf. We want to be in front if we get rained out.”

  Roberto hit a batter in the fourth inning. The runner advanced to third when a one-hopper to Raul hit a hoof depression and bounded over the shortstop’s head. The Jackrabbits’ stubby catcher, a cross between Pancho Villa and Yosemite Sam, attempting to bunt the runner home, singled over Ziggy’s head to give Laredo a 1-0 lead as the clouds rolled in.

  In the sixth, Lamb Daniels hit a routine grounder to the pitcher and jogged down the line accepting his fate as the third out.

  “Daniels,” said a red-faced Chozen as his first baseman entered the dugout, “if you can’t manage any more speed than that, sit your ass down while Deg takes first.”

  “What the—. Nobody, not even Scoop, could have beaten out that throw.”

  “Hustle,” Chozen lectured, “is the difference between a first place team and a second place team. You run, and I mean run, on contact. You rush the play, you might force an error. You don’t rush, you never force an error.”

  In the bottom of the sixth, the sky’s water burst like the amniotic sac of a pregnant woman in the middle of her tenth month. Roberto Alemán, the fastest pitcher in the world, suffered his first loss.

  Cyrus Vance draped a worn-out dollar over Ricardo’s palm. “Betting against your own brother,” he said, shaking his head mournfully as if something much larger had been lost.

  * * *

  Cyrus won the afternoon game the next day, and the Lunkers were on their way to Galveston. Ricardo lost the first half of the double-header against the Whitecaps. In the night game, Bobby took a line drive in the chest, but fielded the ball as it dribbled down the mound and fired to Deg Grose, the rising rookie who had replaced Lamb Daniels on first. In the dugout, Bobby lifted his shirt to show Dickie Chozen the baseball stitches branded on a purple and yellow sunburst like a centipede.

  “Men,” Harry Chozen said, “y’all need to get Bobby some run support. You don’t, we’re gonna get our ass butted by both ends of this double-header. Ricardo?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Chozen?”

  “How would you like to lead the league in strikeouts and finish twelve-and-twelve?”

  “I not like that too much.”

  “Well, that’s what Bobby did last year. Now let’s put something other than donuts on the scoreboard.”

  The men were tired from the road trip, but managed a small rally in the eighth and ninth to give Bobby the win. Tycer’s victory the following day gave the Lunkers their best road trip in years. The seven wins against two losses moved them into a second-place tie. A rare gathering of a hundred fans greeted the Lunkermobile at its 4 A.m. homecoming.

  Chapter 14

  BY the Fourth of July, the Lake Charles Lunkers had twice traded places with the Houston Buffs for sole possession of second place. They were now one game out of first. An Independence Day win, coupled with a New Orleans loss to the Buffs, would make the Lunkers division leader for the first time in the history of the franchise.

  At the team meeting before the game, Bobby noticed that Harry Chozen was unusually somber for a man on the way to his first championship—barring, of course, injuries or other Acts of God.

  Bobby reached in his pocket and rubbed the balding rabbit’s foot against his lucky buckeye seed.

  “Men,” Chozen began, “we’ve had an interesting first half, what with the twins being smuggled to us by a little-known writer from Cuba.”

  A few players chuckled.

  “Then Bobby getting back his fastball.”

  Somebody whistled shrilly and half the team clapped.

  “Now the bad news.” Chozen hung his head. “Television has been eating at the fan base of the lower minors for the last few years. You know the story—why watch the El Dorado Oilers in ninety-degree heat and get splinters in your ass when you can watch the New York Yankees from the comfort of your air-conditioned living room.”

  A handful of players caught the reference to Bobby’s old team and ribbed him.

  Chozen went on. “All that doesn’t immediately affect us, since the C and B clubs will die off first. But as the Braves prepare to move from Boston to Milwaukee next year, their farm system will experience a little upheaval.” Chozen looked up at his men. “To get to the point, I just received a letter from Mr. Perini informing me that Lake Charles is moving up to Triple-A next year.”

  Bobby’s heart fell as Chozen paused to let his statement sink in.

  “I don’t have to tell you what this means, but I feel obligated to say it outright. If you want to stay with the club, you have to put up some Triple-A stats. Some of you are already doing that. Some of you have a ways to go. The Fourth of July is a great day to kick your game up a notch, so let’s get to it.”

  * * *

  It was so hot you could smell the tin of the overhang baking in the sun. American flags, small and large, drooped on the field like a drought-withered crop. Red, white, and blue crepe draped in front of the press box and along the base-line fences whiffled in a gasping breeze. When the team came out of the dark, cement-cool underworld of the clubhouse into the bright sunshine, a goat-roping contest was underway between third and second base. Boys, ages ten to fifteen, were waiting in line to throw a lasso around a goat as it came out of a chute attended by local cattleman Heed Raze.

  Bobby watched a small boy make a good toss, but he couldn’t tackle the goat and was dragged on his belly all the way to second base before his time ran out. While the next boy readied his rope, Bobby thought about his manager’s announcement. No one, not even Harry Chozen, knew that Bobby had been adjusting his win-loss record since signing on four years ago. He had worked hard to rehabilitate his arm to the Double-A level. He knew the strengths and weaknesses of most Gulf Coast League batters and had known he would get shelled in Triple-A without his fastball.

  In the past, when it looked as if Bobby might have enough wins to spend the next season in Triple-A before getting beaten back down, he would throw some fat pitches to hungry hitters in order to add a few tenths to his ERA. When his teammates failed to give him run support and his win-loss ratio told
him he’d be sent down to A or even B ball, he focused harder, batted better, and ran the bases more aggressively, until he was in a safe zone.

  What he did, Bobby believed, didn’t hurt his teammates. Anyone good enough at any position would be judged on his talent alone, independent of the team’s record, and would be called up or sent down according to the skills he demonstrated as an individual.

  Bobby was startled from his reverie by the sound of his name echoing from the loudspeakers. G. Franklin Slater, district attorney and owner of the Lake Charles Lunkers, was standing on home plate, hamming it up in front of a microphone.

  “Where is he?” Slater asked. “Where’s Bobby? Have our favorite southpaw—no offense, Ricardo—let’s have our favorite southpaw come to the mike.” The spectators laughed while breezing their faces with cardboard fans courtesy of Dixie Funeral Home.

  Bobby wasn’t expecting this and didn’t want it. After being gently pushed and prodded, he reached the mike. Slater put an arm around his pitcher’s shoulders.

  “Bobby German,” Slater orated, “is a native Louisianan . . . with a heart as big as Texas!” The crowd roared its approval. “When I heard what he asked Mr. Chozen, and Mr. Chozen passed it on to me, I said, ‘Why shore.’ Just like that. ‘Why shore, go right on ahead. If Bobby wants to spend his hard-earned money that way, who am I to tell him no?’”

  Slater produced a handkerchief from inside his suit and swabbed his brow.

  “Bobby went to Mr. Chozen and said, ‘Mr. Chozen, we have every special night you can think of here at Legion Field. We have Boy Scout night, where the little boogers get in free just for wearing their uniforms. We have ladies night, Little League night, cap night, honor roll night, waitress night, and Veterans night. Why, we even have gas-station-attendant night. What I want to know,’ Bobby said, ‘is why can’t we have a free night for those who really can’t afford to come to a ball game?’

  “And so, my friends,” Slater said with a sweeping wave of his hand, “tonight is the first annual Charity-Begins-at-Home-Plate Night. You’ll notice,” Slater said, looking at his feet. “Step away, Bobby, you’re gettin’ it all dirty.” The fans laughed as Bobby stepped off home plate. “You’ll notice, friends and loyal fans, that home plate is shaped just like that. Look at it. Shaped just like a little house. Almost brings a tear to your eye.”

  As Slater dabbed at his eye with the handkerchief, a smattering of laughs rose from the crowd.

  “Well, good ol’ Bobby here said, ‘There’s some kids who don’t have a home or a—.” A train passing on First Avenue sounded two long blasts followed by two short and two more long. Everyone covered their ears for the next series of notes.

  “Progress,” Slater said after the train passed. “That’s called progress, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t get in its way.” The crowd clapped agreement. “Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted—.” Slater turned to Bobby. “What was I saying? Oh, yes. Bobby said to my manager, ‘Mr. Chozen, we got every special night except one that matters, so I’m declaring the Fourth of Jew-lie as the first annual Charity-Begins-at-Home-Plate Night.’” Slater turned to Bobby. “Or words to that effect, right, Bobby?” Bobby nodded. Slater looked down at home plate. “Then Bobby said, ‘For those that don’t have a daddy to bring them to the ballpark, instead of locking those kids away at Boys Village like a bunch of midget-sized criminals, why don’t we pick them up in the team bus and dump them right here on the field once or twice a year?’”

  The crowd applauded for Bobby. Slater raised his finger and turned on his mock-attorney voice, “And so, whereas, to that end, Bobby himself drove the Lunkermobile to pick up the little rascals, and whereas Bobby has donated his own money to buy concessions for this rowdy bunch of orphanites, now be it resolved that—.” Slater pretended to struggle for the right words. “Why, be it resolved that we let him pay for the dadburn popcorn and sody pop!”

  The crowd went wild, shouting and clapping and waving American flags.

  Slater took his arm from around Bobby’s shoulders and ushered him to the microphone. “Lucky Strike, why don’t you say a few words to your fans?”

  Bobby took off his cap and stepped to the mike. He had no idea what to say. He squinted his eyes against the sun and looked into the stands. He silently worked his lips while staring at the mike, then finally spoke.

  “Folks, my arm’s getting cold. Let’s play ball.”

  The crowd thunderously applauded agreement, but Slater momentarily dampened their spirits by announcing the game would commence after a prayer by Dr. V. Han Deaton, pastor of the First Baptist Church. Dr. Deaton was more cerebral than most Baptist preachers, and his sermons confounded his flock more often than not.

  In church, Dr. Deaton prayed as if God were his best friend, standing right next to him. The ceremonial prayer was no different. Instead of gloomily bowing his head, Dr. Deaton lifted his beaming face skyward as if God were waiting for the game to begin, chomping on a bag of popcorn just over a white cloud above the left-field light rack.

  “God, we sure are glad you’re here. We’d appreciate it if you’d take care of these ballplayers, and if one of the pitchers gets in trouble, we know there’ll be someone to step in and take over just like the Great Relief Pitcher, your Son, did when we couldn’t bear the burden of our own sins. Amen to that and God says, Batter up!”

  While the fans’ and players’ heads were reverently bowed, Bobby peeked around in the grandstands until he saw her. Irene was standing arm in arm with Earl. During the month she had been in town, Bobby had seen her twice, once at the lunch counter of Walgreens and once in the Sunset Nightclub on the top floor of the Charleston Hotel. He had not tried to get her attention, and he wondered if she had ever seen him when he had not seen her. As Bobby kept his eye on Irene, she opened one lid and looked directly at him. When he nodded, she smiled and winked the eye closed.

  * * *

  No one expected the game to be a difficult one. The Lunkers were playing the sixth place Crowley Cajuns, who were in a dead heat for dead last with the Galveston Whitecaps and Laredo Jackrabbits. Backed by scattered runs that promised more as the game progressed, Bobby moved through the first innings with an easy confidence.

  Even though Bobby promised himself he would not look at Irene, he couldn’t resist the temptation of checking on her at least once an inning. She looked like she was having a good time. In the third inning, Louis and Marlene, a baby in tow, showed up next to Irene and Earl. Bobby thought, “So Louis married her. Well, good for him. She was a nice girl.”

  In the fourth inning, Judge Carlton introduced a Crowley batter as George “Spit” Hurd. George waved his bat menacingly. A wad of tobacco packed in his cheek made him look like a cartoon character with a toothache.

  “Why they call him Spit?” Ricardo asked.

  The players shook their heads and chuckled. Good-naturedly, someone down the bench said, “What a knothead.”

  Spit slashed the first pitch into right for a standup double and was driven home to put the Cajuns on the board 4-1.

  Later that inning, Bobby had a swinging third strike annulled because of a bottle rocket that shot onto the field between the pitcher’s mound and home plate.

  When Bill German hit a rare home run in the fifth, Judge Carlton smacked his gavel. “Touchdown! Billy Boy hit that one into next week, folks!” Polly concluded “In the Sweet By and By” with a patriotic fanfare the crowd appreciated.

  Even the Lunker fans were amused by one spectator rooting for the Crowley Cajuns. With a black cane and blank-white eyes, the shriveled old lady sat high in the cheap seats of the home bleachers. Whenever Bobby got an enthusiastic called strike, the blind woman shouted, “Hey, whatsa matter, ump? You blind?! Even I could see that was a ball!”

  In the seventh inning, Judge Carlton introduced Henry “Shrug” McDonald as a second-career player who had pitched two years for the Brooklyn Dodgers, then retrained as a shortstop when he ran into arm trouble. With two
out and a comfortable 6-1 lead, Bobby decided to break his usual rhythm and work McDonald fast. On the third pitch, Bobby landed awkwardly and felt a sting shoot through his shoulder. He finished McDonald off with a changeup and, on the bench, felt the pain grow to a dull throb.

  Bobby had felt the pain before. It was like the ache an electric shock leaves in your arm, making it tired beyond tired. Bobby knew he should pull himself and get the shoulder iced down immediately, but he wanted to finish the important Fourth of July game in front of Irene and decided to limp through the final innings with his changeup and curve.